


Winterhawk & Kisses 6

by Nny



Series: Winterhawk Kisses [6]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2020-03-09 04:50:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 150
Words: 53,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18909910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: A continuing collection of all the snippets posted on the winterhawkkisses tumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to every single person ever who has liked or reblogged any of my ficlets, and thank you even more to anyone who has left a comment on any instalment of this series. You are all loved.

Clint doesn’t register what shirt he puts on, that morning. Sleeping wasn’t really working for him, last night; the shadows had worn Loki’s smile. He crawls out of bed and puts on the first thing that’d passed the sniff test, hauling his exhausted ass to the kitchen and making straight for the coffee pot, eyes only halfway open. 

As soon as the bitterness hits his tongue he takes in the first deep breath since he woke up gasping. If he’s lucky he’ll maybe manage to catch a few z’s later; Tony has exceptional taste in napping couches. Probably doesn’t say anything good about any of them that that’s the priority when furniture shopping. 

Clint drains his mug without moving away from the counter, refilling it before he turns to take a seat at the table. Before he can move he’s suddenly surrounded - warm arms are wrapped tightly around him, freshly washed hair soft against his face. It takes him a couple of seconds to work out what the hell is happening; it takes him that long to work out who it is that smells like cedar and cordite. 

Even at her softest, Natasha is all angles, and it’s been a long goddamned time since anyone _else_ has wrapped themselves around him like this. The fact that it’s Bucky Barnes - who always seems half an inch from killing ‘em all - who fits so perfectly against him is kinda wrinkling Clint’s brain. 

“I,” he says. “What?” 

“Nice shirt,” Bucky says, with an inscrutable smile. He grabs Clint’s mug of coffee and wanders out of the kitchen, and Clint is honestly too dazed by the residual warmth that he doesn’t even manage to shoot him for it. 

He looks down, scrubs his hand over his rough chin, and wonders how many times he can wear his ‘FREE HUGS’ shirt before Natasha catches on. 


	2. Chapter 2

Apparently, Kim had done ten thousand steps before it even got to lunch today, and the comparisons that followed were making Clint feel tired. He tugged his headphones up over his truly spectacular bedhead and tried not to swallow the microphone whole when he yawned. See, he hadn’t done ten thousand steps,  _Kim_ , and yeah he had had a breakfast from McDonalds, but he had taken down three muggers and an asshole with a shotgun last night and Fitbits weren’t spectacularly helpful when trying to measure that shit.

She could take her judgy eyes and shove ‘em.

“Hey, good morning,” Clint said, when someone picked up the phone on the other end. “This is Clint Barton calling from Lilac Training, is James Buchanan there please?”

“Barnes,” someone said on the other end of the call, and he sounded like he was having a worse morning than Clint was.

“Sorry?”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” the voice said, “I’ve told you guys this half a hundred times.”

 _James Buchanan **Barnes**  is anasshole_, Clint wrote helpfully on his handy purple pad.

“Sorry about that, sir,” he said, “I’ll make sure we get that altered on the system for you. I’ve got you booked in for a review call today, is that still okay with your schedule?”

“Oh sure,” James said. “My busy fuckin’ schedule.” He poured some liquid in the background, and Clint could just tell - ‘cos he’d spilled his goddamn McDonalds coffee, and he hadn’t had time to grab another from the break room - that it was blessed caffeine pouring into a mug. Clint pouted, his lip catching on the microphone. “Go ahead,” James said.

“Okay. So the first thing I have to do is check in on your general safety and wellbeing,” Clint told him, flipping his pen over his knuckles and repeating the spiel by rote. “Are you currently in a safe place where you’re unlikely to be interrupted?”

James snorted. “Sure.”

“And you’ll hear the fire alarms if they go off.”

“Only person likely to set ‘em off is me,” he said, and Clint grinned a little - shitty cook solidarity.

“When you’re in your place of work,” Clint said, “have you had any inappropriate or confrontational contact with customers or staff?”

“You ever worked in retail?” James asked, and Clint couldn’t help the little noise of disgust that escaped him. “Yeah, exactly,” James said. “Show me a retail worker and I’ll show you fear in a handful of coupons.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “so I’ll admit that difficult customers are kinda a given. Do you have someone you can go to for support, then? Someone who’ll have your back?”

“Yeah,” James said, and his voice warmed a little for the first time, slippin’ a little slower and a little more Brooklyn. It was a nice voice. Kinda familiar. “Yeah, Stevie’s always got my back - he’s my supervisor.”

“And does he also act as your mentor on this course?”

“Nah, that’s Sam. Steve is too easy to distract,” James said, and there was an element of mischief now that made Clint vaguely envious of this Steve guy - it had been entirely too fuckin’ long since he’d got laid. He’d even phoned one of those jerk-off lines a couple times, makin’ it  a little less lonely to get himself off on his own again.

“Sam. Wilson, right?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy. You did your homework,” James said, a little patronising, hella smooth. “Good boy.”

And… oh. Jesus. Clint knows where he’s heard that fuckin’ voice before, now.

He gets through the rest of the call in a daze - which isn’t so far off from the way he usually gets through ‘em. He’s been doing this long enough that it’s autopilot now - how’s the deadline looking for you, when will you next be submitting some work, are your bosses letting you take some study time? He’s not sure the notes he’s taking are any kinda helpful, but he can get the majority of what they talk about off the computer system later.

“Is there anything else I can do for you today?” he asks, and he can almost hear James smilin’ all slow.

“Nah, you’ve been plenty satisfying,” he says, a tease, and Clint tries not to swallow his tongue.


	3. Chapter 3

He’s a ghost. 

He doesn’t have a name. There’s no capital letters, no ghost stories, no little assassin babies learning about him at their assassin mothers’ knees. There’s no international manhunt, no recognition, no acknowledgement of the work Bucky’s done just finding the barest trace. Steve just pinches the bridge of his nose when Bucky puts the dossier in front of him, lets out a long breath. 

“Agent -” 

“Don’t ‘Agent’ me, Stevie.” He slumps into the chair on the opposite side of the desk from Steve, one leg slung over the arm of it. He folds his arms across his chest and kinda misses the long hair from his undercover gig with Hydra - it’d added so much to his glower. “I swear to god I met him.” 

“Buck, you’re chasing a story,” Steve says, and Bucky snorts rudely. 

“For there to be a story there has to be someone left alive to goddamn tell it.” 

“Well according to you,” and Steve’s arched eyebrow is a testament to how much of that is believed, “that’d be you.” 

Bucky doesn’t get it either. 

He’s been chasing the barest suggestions of nothin’ for a couple years, now, and the file folder in front of Stevie is still barely two sheets thick. Inconsistencies in autopsies, missing bullets, impossible angles, entries that require the kinda acrobatics that give circuses a bad name. And his biggest break yet had been an impossibility of a hunch, based on nothing but gut instinct and the kinda casual disregard for his own safety that Steve has given up tryin’ to discipline out of him. 

“I’m not imaginin’ things, Cap,” he says, and something must get through, ‘cos Steve taps the file folder thoughtfully, flips it open and scans the bare sentences again. 

“So what does he look like, this ghost of yours?” 

Bucky opens his mouth. Closes it again. Tries for some form of words that don’t make him sound like he’s been dreamin’ about the guy ever since he caught a glimpse. About his shoulders, and the way he looks in black leather, and the misery in his eyes. 

“Tall,” he says, looking away from Steve’s knowing stare. “Really fuckin’ tall.”


	4. Chapter 4

Barney goes along halfway convinced that he’s gonna go stop the wedding. Despite all evidence to the contrary he does kinda want his little brother to be happy, and - well, with their past, he kinda feels he owes him a good deed. So far his experience of Clint’s fiance is that the guy is dangerous, criminal and an international assassin, so - well, so he’s probably gonna fit right in at family dinners, but that doesn’t mean he’s not gonna worry. 

His suit’s cut all wrong for him, tight across the shoulders and baggy around the ass, but so far as he can remember he didn’t steal the thing. He throws on a clean shirt and a bright red tie and calls it good, then has to argue with the guy on the gate for ten minutes just to let him in. 

The wedding’s taking place at a beautiful old house in upstate New York, and Barney’s not remotely convinced he’s got the right place until he sees the twinkling lights in the trees and the purple flowers that line the walkway. No way Clint did the decorating, ‘cos he’s just as tacky as Barney is and woulda probably gone with a balloon arch and purple glitter. He’s had a hand in the colour scheme, though, and the fairy lights remind Barney of the glow in the dark stars that used to be on the bedroom ceiling, growing up. The way they helped ‘em pretend they were anywhere else. 

The pathway leads him around to the back of the house, and he’s genuinely surprised for a moment at how few people are there. Doesn’t like how exposed it makes him feel. A small group of chairs is set out near a trellised arch that’s covered with passion flowers, the kind that look kinda like the alien life forms that Clint’s always fightin’ on the news. He gets a narrow-eyed look from Clint’s Romanov chick, and a confused kinda smile from the handsome black guy standing with her, but it’s kinda hard to pay them any attention. 

Growing up with a guy, you figure you know them pretty decently. Have a catalogue of their facial expressions and can get a decent read on how they feel. Hell, most of ‘em he recognises from his mirror in the morning, but the way Clint’s all lit up from the inside is like nothing he’s ever seen.


	5. Chapter 5

“It’s okay to need a break sometimes,” Steve says. “It’s healthy, right? Time out is good for a relationship.”

“The fuck are you talkin’ about, Stevie?” Bucky says, beer bottle dangling from almost lax fingers. It was painkillers or beer, tonight, and frankly each of them is equally short term and kinda useless. He knows what he needs. 

“Just, y’know, Clint can be kinda a lot.” Steve makes a face half-rueful, half a smile. 

“Says the guy who’s dating Stark,” Bucky bristles, instantly defensive, and Steve raises his beer a little, acknowledging the hit. 

The elevator pings politely, and the doors ease open, and Bucky’s on his feet and heading over before it’s even open all the way. 

“Yeah, good talk,” Steve says, but nobody’s listening, Clint’s fingers scritching gently across Bucky’s scalp, encouraging his head down to rest against Clint’s collarbone. Clint smells like sweat and the summer and Bucky would happily stay here forever. 

“Hey, Steve,” Clint rumbles, his voice low against Bucky’s ear. 

“Don’t talk to him,” Bucky mumbles. “He thinks I should take a break from you.”

“I didn’t say should,” Steve protests, but Clint’s ducking down, brushing hair away from Bucky’s temple so he can press a kiss there instead. 

“It’s crazy that you don’t want to,” Clint says. He’s smiling. Bucky links his hands together, holds tight behind Clint’s back.


	6. Chapter 6

Clint fought his way out of the golden corn field, disoriented and confused when it came to an end and the colour did with it, the house in front of him white with accents of black, and the sky the kind of odd white of those snowy days where you’d almost think you could walk right into it. The only relief to the relentless monochrome were the jaunty bowls on the paving that were surrounded by a multitude of cats, and he threaded his way carefully through them to the open back door. 

The kitchen was functional, and lost outta time - there was nothing electric in there, it looked like a page out of a history book, but there was still something fundamentally human about it, something that was noticeably missing just as soon as he walked through the door into the hallway. 

Even for Clint, the doorways were tall, with the same black on white colour scheme as the whole house. The hallway was somehow far too long for the small house to contain, and there was a second storey that he was sure he hadn’t seen from the outside. He felt a moment of that dragging helplessness, that hopeless exhaustion that had been dogging him - there were so many rooms, where the hell was he going to start? - but he square his shoulders and forged forward to the first doorway. 

If he didn’t find him, if he wasn’t here,  _then_  it wouldn’t matter if he just gave up. If he just laid down and… waited. So far as he could tell, it was the right place for it. 

The first room was filled with hourglasses and the gentle rushing of sand, a hiss of white noise that somehow seemed just on the edge of becoming words, voices, lives being lived. Even from the limited view the doorway gave him the room seemed impossible, endless, and he ducked back out quickly; his track record with fragility made him scared to even breathe. 

The next door was locked, and the door after that. Clint rested his head against the mortuary-cool wood and reminded himself why he needed to breathe. 

“Hey,” a voice said, muffled by a closed door but not too distant, “keep your hair on, I’ll be back in a -” 

The door started opening and the voice - the fuckin’ familiar, essential voice - stopped as Clint grabbed the handle and yanked it open, Bucky startled and smiling and so much more  _intact_ now beyond it. 

“Clint?” he said, startled, unsettled, which was maybe due a little to the crumbling of Clint’s expression, the way his composure shattered like concrete hit by a metal arm at too high speed. 

“Shut up, okay?” he said, his voice blurring as much as his vision was, “I’m getting you out of here. We’re going home.” 

“HE WAS ALWAYS COMING HOME,” said a voice, deep like the thud of earth on a coffin’s lid. Clint looked up, looked into eyes that were the blue of the end of the universe, and of all the space beyond. “HE DOESN’T EVEN STAY LONG ENOUGH FOR CHESS, THESE DAYS.” 

“Hey,” Bucky said, and he was talking to the walking skeleton but he was looking into Clint’s eyes, “you were enjoyin’ Cards Against Humanity, don’t even pretend you weren’t.” 

“You’re comin’ home?” Clint asked, because he hadn’t managed to quite believe it, not even with how hard he’d fought to come after him. 

“My life’s been fucked around enough that it looks like a novelty sex toy at this point,” Bucky said with a crooked grin. “No one’s got any clue when the sand’s gonna run out, but I swear to whatever the hell is in charge of this mess that I will always come back to you.” 


	7. Chapter 7

Clint sat back down in the bottom of the shower, the towel soaking through with cooling water under his ass. He slid the door closed behind him, cutting off the draught from the shitty extractor fan, cutting off the rest of the world with it. 

His phone screen was a little damp with residual steam, and he wiped it off against his thigh, noticed absently that it was shaking. He had - there had been eating, he kinda remembered the way it had caught in his throat, but he wasn’t entirely sure it’d been within the last day. He felt like one of those - he’d seen it on YouTube, one time. Those droplets of glass that were stronger than hammers in one part, with another part so fragile that the slightest breath would make them explode. 

Transparent like glass, too. That was why he’d come to Bed-Stuy. 

Clint realised he was scrubbing his phone against his thigh, still; he stopped before he broke it, too. 

“You’ve reached the voicemail,” it said smoothly, “of  _…what the fuck?_. Please leave a message after the beep. When you have finished your message please hang up, or press the hash key for more options.” 

“Um. Hey.” He cleared his throat, carefully. There was one of those glass droplets in his throat, too; he didn’t want to risk it breaking. “I. uh. I know you don’t love me any more, but I -” he had to let out a long breath to get the shaking out. “Can you come over?” 

It was pathetic. It was pathetic and awful and everything that made him hideous, but he couldn’t delete it because he didn’t have the voice left to try it again. He dropped his phone into his lap and rested his arms on his hitched up knees, curled all small to fit into the cubicle and tugged out his aids to join his phone. He wasn’t expecting anyone to come, but he’d asked, he was  _trying_ ; that had always been one of their problems. 

Too little, too late. 

Like a goddamn net arrow that found its mark but that he didn’t have the strength to haul back. 

Like the sips of breath that were all he could manage, dark around the edges of his vision until he hid his head in his arms. 

Couldn’t hear the door sliding open, but he felt the cold intrusion. Couldn’t help but hitch out a sob when cool metal tangled gently into his wet hair. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to previous

_I know you don’t love me any more,_ he’d said. 

Clint was beautiful when he let himself spread out like this, take up as much space as he was due. Bucky ran a hand down his back, goose pimples under his palm, and hated how easy it was to feel the bumps of his spine. It was easy to see the tension that radiated, too, when Clint woke up, catching his breath sharply. 

“It’s just me,” Bucky said, and Clint - for a moment, he seemed like he’d settle in like they used to, but only for a moment. He shifted his weight and rolled away onto his back. 

“I shouldn’t’ve called you,” Clint said, and that covered a whole multitude of sins - shouldn’t’ve called, shouldn’t’ve let you take care of me, shouldn’t’ve fallen asleep laid out across your chest. Bucky shrugged himself up onto his elbows. 

“I probably shouldn’t’ve come.” 

He hated how Clint flinched at that. He was never so mired in self-hatred that he couldn’t let your words weigh him a little further down. 

“I’m okay now,” he said, and he sat up in one fluid movement that emphasised the muscles of his stomach in sharp lines. Bucky’d take it as a kindness if he put on a shirt. “I can - I just needed some sleep, or - 

“Or to remember how to breathe,” Bucky said, and Clint cast him a betrayed look. 

“Or something to eat, probably,” he said, trying to rally. Not really managing it. 

“Get dressed,” Bucky said, fighting with everything he had for it not to sound fond. “I’ll find something in the kitchen.”

Everything was where it’d always been. He didn’t know why he felt like it ought to’ve changed. He put together some soup and sandwiches - just enough for one - and went back into the bedroom. He found Clint halfway dressed - still without a goddamned shirt - and sacked out asleep again. It was easy to forget the arguments, the way he looked asleep. 

Bucky sighed and sank down onto the edge of the bed, and the way Clint unconsciously curled into him hurt something he’d hoped was finally healing. 

“That thing you think you know,” Bucky bent to whisper, right into the roots of Clint’s hair, “there’s no way you could know it at all.”


	9. Chapter 9

Clint’s a heavy sleeper. Bucky can personally testify to this, ‘cos somehow - when there are safehouses with limited rooms, or temperatures that demand share body heat, or even when they’re sharing a damned couch on movie night and Clint’s had a long, hard day - somehow Bucky ends up bearing the brunt of it. 

See, Clint’s a heavy sleeper in that it takes a concerted effort, a brass band, a wafting coffee mug to get him stirring; he’s also a heavy sleeper, physically. As soon as he’s left the land of the vaguely vertical, Clint’s a snuggler. Wiggling, and encroaching, and making tiny grumbling noises that are difficult to refuse.

Impossible to resist. 

Bucky has had to re-accustom himself to waking up at the faintest hint of movement, ‘cos it’s hard to believe how safe the weight of a heavy head, the semi-stranglehold of a sleeping archer can make him feel. And if Clint ever wakes up to the kinda compromising positions Bucky lets himself get tangled into… 

“I never took you for a patient man,” Natasha tells him, with one of her little smiles. 

“Don’t know what you mean,” he says, his face a practised blank, but Clint is making sleepy noises and tugging determinedly at Bucky’s arm, and she ain’t exactly working, now,  to hide her laugh. 

“Thanks for takin’ one for the team, Buck,” Steve says, the next morning, when Bucky’s still got the creases of Clint’s shirt pressed in faint lines on the skin of his neck. The safehouse kitchen is small but well lit, bulletproof windows with cheerful drapes, and there’s certainly nowhere for Bucky to hide his reddening face. See, Clint’s a heavy sleeper, wiggling, and encroaching, and pushing in close - and whenever they’re pairin’ up and Clint’s lookin’ all hopeful, Bucky’s always first in the goddamned line. 


	10. Chapter 10

Bucky’s sprawled out over the couch in the area that was supposed to be for all of them, but this time of day he gets to claim it as his. He’s deep in the bowels of Wikipedia by now - FRIDAY’s been good enough to warm up the lights just a little so he’s not sitting alone in the dark, scrolling through his phone, and it’s like a polite fiction they’re maintaining between themselves. Of course he’s here by choice. Of course he wouldn’t rather be in his bed, right now, surrounded by shadows without teeth. 

There’s a rustling in the doorway, and Bucky doesn’t even have to look up. He just moves his arms outta the way and settles himself a little more comfortably, listening to the gentle rustling of Clint’s blankets dragging across the carpet before he’s suddenly squashed under his warm, angular weight. 

“Morning,” he says, soft, but Clint’s not there, yet. He’s still in the stage where he’s just seeking comfort, and likely as not his aids ain’t in. Even half asleep, though, he’s tucking them up all careful, makin’ sure Bucky’s arms are free - both for Wikipedia and so’s he can access a weapon without any fumbling. Bucky appreciates the thought. Finally, with a contented kinda sigh, Clint settles down on his chest, his cheek resting over Bucky’s heart ‘cos he says he likes to feel it. 

“Pizza ate me,” he mumbles, explanation for his presence, and Bucky’s looking forward to when he doesn’t need to fumble at justifying. 

It’s a little absurd that they still ain’t a thing. He thinks maybe Clint is waiting for Bucky to be ready, and he’s not gonna lie and say he doesn’t appreciate the care in that. But all he wants to do right now is lean down and taste Clint’s sleep sour mouth, and it’s kinda crazy that they’re not there yet. He brushes a kiss, instead, into Clint’s deeply tragic pillow disarrayed hair, and Clint lets out a warm breath and somehow gets heavier, and Bucky’s learnin’ what happy feels like now with every sleepless night. 


	11. Chapter 11

In the darkness, in the night, with the warm weight in his arms, he doesn’t have to be self conscious about how rough his voice is, how no matter the healing his cut-rate serum brings he will never quite get over the screaming. 

“Rock-a-bye baby,” he sings, Teddy sucking solemnly on one tiny fist, “on the tree top, when the wind blows, the cradle will rock.” It ain’t the only sound in the house, but near enough; Lucky’s snoring down in the kitchen, and there’s the gentle buzz of the television that Clint always leaves on standby, ‘cos half the time he falls asleep in front of it. There’s the whisper of wind outside the house, the kinda weather that makes you feel warmer ‘cos you ain’t out in it. 

“When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,” he sings, and then another voice - sweeter in tone but a little less tuneful even with his his aids - takes over. 

“And along will come daddy to rescue them all.” 

Bucky snorts, and Teddy’s little face stretches out into one of the grins that Stevie is still insisting are gas, pulled tight around his tiny soggy fingers. 

“We agreed,” Bucky says, keepin’ his voice low, letting Teddy feel it through his chest, “that you were papa, and I get to be daddy. Don’t pretend you forgot the conversation.” 

“I remember,” Clint says, coming in close and pressing up against Bucky’s back, ducking down so he can rest his chin on Bucky’s shoulder and make faces at Teddy, get him all riled back up. “Don’t you know,” he says, his voice low in Bucky’s ear, “that you’re always gonna be the hero in my songs?” 


	12. Chapter 12

Post-mission clean-up, and Steve’s in an uncharacteristically pissy mood - uncharacteristic for this century, at least, from what Bucky remembers, and to be honest he’s kinda glad to see it ‘cos the guy needs to remember how to cut loose. They’re all hauling around DoomBot carcasses, and Tony’s whistling some kinda working song, and Natasha’s taking great delight in scaring the shit out of the media.

 

Clint and Scott have got into some kinda ridiculous prank war which involves hiding behind cars, a hell of a lot of giggling, and the occasional DoomBot blowing sky high. Bucky’s watching with amusement tied about equal with the way he always feels when he sees Clint in his tac suit; feelings that’re probably best not examined, not with the media around. There’s somethin’ about the deep sheen of purple, though, about dust and streaks of Bot-grime like finger marks across his skin. Then there’re the biceps, of course, which are just about the most indecent thing Bucky’s seen outside of brown paper-wrapped magazines hidin’ out on the top shelves of newsagents.

 

“I swear to god,” Steve snaps, when an exploding DoomBot unsettles his tidy pile of trash, and Bucky folds his arms across his chest and tries not to let too much of his amusement slide into his voice.

 

“Now now, children,” he says, “you go upsetting Captain America and I’m gonna have to spank ya.”

 

Scott snorts, a juvenile bubble of laughter, but Clint -

 

Clint makes a noise, high-pitched and humiliating and so obviously, undeniably wrecked at the thought of it that it - Fuck, it makes Bucky’s palm itch.


	13. Chapter 13

Clint was a reluctant hipster.

Not to say he didn’t look good with it, the old leather suspenders doing fantastic things for his shoulders, Brylcreem just about managing to tame the mess on his head. Natasha liked to dress up sometimes too, vintage dresses and seamed stockings, her hair curled carefully and just exactly right; she was a hell of a dance partner, and Clint felt like he was the envy of just about everyone in Cahoots. 

The old timey music had kinda grown on him, honestly, and dancing was somehow like performing; tripped whatever switch in his head it was that managed to keep him from falling ass over teakettle, allowed him even to look like he knew what he was doing. 

It wouldn’ta been his first choice of hangouts, most likely, but Clint had words that curled up his forearm, words that’d kinda made growing up hard - they’d given his dad ideas - but once the internet became more accessible they’d reassured him. Given him some kinda guide about where he could start lookin’ for the person who was gonna say his words. 

So Clint was a reluctant hipster, and he kinda questioned the validity of fetishising the war like this, but he could deal with the music, and he liked the dancing, and he started having some kinda Pavlovian reaction to people over-using barely comprehensible wartime slang. 

It was a crowded night, and Clint was sucking down a drink outta some cup that was shaped like Vera Lynn’s head, and he leaned back against the bar for a moment, watching Natasha dance rings around some poor panting asshole who didn’t have a chance. He noticed immediately when the two new guys came in, ‘cos one of them was dressed somehow more authentically than everyone else - like he wasn’t serving looks but honestly thought he should dress like someone’s grandpa - and the other had made no kinda effort at all. He was dressed in jeans, a red Henley, a battered jacket, and he’da looked out of place if he wasn’t so beautiful with it, pale eyes scanning the room from behind long mussed hair. 

Clint essayed a nod, and blondie dragged them both over while Clint turned to the bartender. 

“Let’s get some Vera Lynn into the noobs,” he said, and she rolled her eyes but set about making the drinks. 

“First time?” Clint asked Blondie, and the guy drew in a breath. 

They were Steve and Bucky - say hi, Bucky! (Bucky did not say hi.) They were tryin’ something new, looking to recapture the kinda places they used to go drinking a long, a really long time ago. (Before it was cool? Clint asked, but Steve was so very earnest in his hipster that Clint kinda felt bad for the ribbing.) They had been a few places that didn’t feel right, but Steve kinda liked this one, and - 

He fell silent at that point, ‘cos Natasha had arrived, and awed silence was a pretty standard reaction to her. He got dragged off, kinda dazed, for a dance, and Bucky snorted. 

“Sorry about the ear beater,” he said, and Clint felt a flush of warmth flow through him, dancing around the words on his arm. 

“I hope you appreciate I’m wearin’ suspenders for you,” he said, and Bucky’s gorgeous eyes widened, his mouth curving into a life-changing smile. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to previous chapter

Bucky’s words curled around his hip, same place somebody might someday rest their hand when they leaned in to kiss him, and as soon as he was old enough to have some idea what he wanted, they felt just a little too much like a compromise. 

 _I hope you appreciate I’m wearin’ suspenders for you,_  they said. And Bucky thought about - 

He thought about the curl in Garrett Carmichael’s mouth when he smiled, the way his eyes narrowed a little like he was laughing at the world and laughing at himself all at once. 

He thought about the sensible kinda dames that Steve always lost his mind over, the way some of ‘em worked in jobs you wouldn’t expect, the way they sometimes dressed a little mannish and how it always dried out Bucky’s mouth. 

He thought about the Christian organisations that existed. Where people’d already heard their soulmate words, but they were waitin’ to hear them from someone the right shape, maybe from a pair of painted lips instead. 

Sometimes he found himself stroking his thumb across his words, comforted by the stark black curl of them, but wishing like hell that they said almost anythin’ else, ‘cos he didn’t want someone to have to make compromises for him, right from the instant of meeting. 

(And he didn’t want to have to compromise right back; didn’t want a dressed up girl with pants and suspenders and waxy tasting lipstick, couldn’t see himself ever wanting that, no matter what the universe promised.)

And then he went to war. 

After that it didn’t much matter at all. 

He noticed what guys were wearin’, when he came back to himself. Not Steve, maybe, ‘cos Stevie was still dressing like they were goin’ out dancing in Brooklyn, like they were going to listen to hissing records playing scandalous jazz, and he took a weird kinda comfort in that. But he noticed that fashions were different, that everything’d changed, and it - yeah, it maybe kindled a little hope. 

 _Cahoots_  was a little less ridiculous than most of the places that Steve took him dancing - or, more accurately, where Steve took him and danced while Bucky knocked back spirits, steel jawed in the corner. It was less accurate than some but a little more fun, and when he saw the way Steve was lookin’ at the redhead on the dance floor he figured maybe there was a reason they’d showed up here. 

The blond guy that Steve cornered at the bar was a hell of a secondary reason, though. 

“Sorry for the ear beater,” Bucky said when Steve’d finally stopped talking, and the guy’s pretty sky-blue eyes just lit up, his mouth curving into the kinda smile that said the world had done something just delightful, and he couldn’t wait to share. 

“I hope you appreciate I’m wearin’ suspenders for you,” he said, his voice low and amused and holy shit  _everything_  Bucky wanted, no trace of any sort of compromise at all. 


	15. Chapter 15

“Okay,” Clint said. He reached up to tuck the hanging hair carefully behind Bucky’s ear, so tender with it, his eyes following the movement. “What’s the hold up here? You afraid you’re gonna hurt me?” His eyes were so soft. “‘Cos I’m a little afraid of that too, but I’m willing to try this anyway.”

Bucky swallowed hard and shook his head.

“No? Okay. Good. That’s good.”

Bucky kinda had to lean down at kiss him for his smile at that. It was good. It was always so fuckin’ good.

“Okay,” Clint said, after a second, renewed in his breathlessness, his cheeks flushed pink. “Is it about me lettin’ you inside?” He adopted a serious expression. “'Cos I ain’t gonna lie, Buck, I am willing to beg.”

Bucky swallowed kinda hard, couldn’t find any words to drop into the pause between them.

“Also,” Clint said after a second, kinda shy in a way he never was with his body, watching Bucky’s hand instead of his eyes as he carefully wove their fingers, bringing his tanned skin and Bucky’s ridged metal together to rest on the skin of his chest. “Also, hate to break it to you, Buck, but you’re already pretty fuckin’ firmly embedded.”


	16. Chapter 16

There’re all the usual tales - that the prince’s beauty is beyond compare, that the curse on him can only be broken by another prince with a pure heart, that the castle is cursed and will soon be covered with thorns. 

Most of them are, in Steve’s considered opinion, worth about as much as the horse shit that’s shovelled in the stables. Sure, Bucky’s kinda cute, but he’s never looked good sleeping. He sprawls and snores and - from experience when they were children growing together - Steve knows for a fact that he kicks. The likelihood that true love is gonna come from a prince with a pure heart seems optimistic, considering the morally grey area in which Bucky has always dwelled. Not to mention his sense of humour. 

The thorn thing, maybe. The gardener, Scott, is kind of inept. 

Steve has no idea whether it’s a curse or an illness or something no one can explain, but he misses his best friend; he indulges the visiting princes with a stoic sort of protectiveness, hovering in the corner of the room and making sure they don’t take liberties that aren’t invited. 

One morning he’s startled almost out of his skin by a clattering, a smashing, the gentle ‘gloing gloing gloing’ of one last intact dish. He races for the door but it’s flung open before he can get in there, a tall guy dressed in the castle livery backing out hurriedly. 

“Er,” the guy says, and rubs the back of his neck. “Er, the prince is awake? He threw a pillow at me.” 

And yeah, coming from Bucky, that sounds a lot like it could be true love.


	17. Chapter 17

“That was dumb, huh?” 

Steve laughs, and takes out the phone Tony’s finally just about persuaded him to learn how to use. 

“Man,” he says, “I gotta get this on camera.” 

Bucky takes in a deep breath and lets it out through his nose, shifting around in the bed like he has somewhere to be. Steve rests a hand on his shoulder, ‘cos this ain’t the first time they’ve had to give him anaesthetics, and last time he’d got in a fight with the bed railings and dumped himself out on the floor. 

“That was dumb,” Bucky says again. “Where’s Clint?” 

“He’s getting stitched up, I think.” Steve zooms in on Bucky’s scowl; he looks like he used to when he was about six years old. “Why d’you need Clint, Buck?”

“To tell him that was dumb,” Bucky says, matter-of-fact. 

“He saw it happen, Buck. I’m pretty sure he knows.” 

“No, no, no, not the - the - no. I gotta tell Clint - Clint!” 

Steve turns around, the camera a little shaky, and sure enough there’s Clint in the doorway, a huge gauze patch covering one of his eyebrows and most of his forehead. 

“Hey, Steve,” he says, and comes in to stand by Bucky, who reaches out instantly to grab at Clint’s fingers and look sulky as all hell when he’s batted away. Clint gives Steve a sidelong kinda look - he’s gonna have to watch the footage back later to work out what  _that_  means. 

“That was dumb, Clint,” Bucky tells him, and Clint rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m too squishy, you told me last time -” 

“No,” Bucky says, makes a play for Clint’s fingers again, lets out a triumphant little noise when he hooks onto Clint’s bracer. “No, I like squishin’ you, that ain’t it.” 

Steve… blinks. 

“Buck,” Clint says, pained, “how about we have this conversation when you’re sober?” He’s holding himself still, clearly workin’ on not looking at Steve. “When we’re somewhere  _else_.” 

“No,” Bucky says. He’s stubborn when he’s drugged. Stubborn and kinda… simple, all the layers stripped away. “No, I don’t care, I was talking bullshit, Clint -” 

“Buck -” 

“I don’t wanna cool off or slow down or whatever I said, I mostly wanna marry you and it scares the shit out of me.” 

Steve kinda makes a small choked noise - didn’t mean to - and they both look at him, Bucky belligerent and Clint - dazed, mostly. Looks like. Happy sneaking in at the edges like it’s still trying to find its way. 

“Um,” Steve says. “I’ll just -” 

He shuts off the video and walks out. (And, later, he asks Tony for more instructions on how to use the damn thing; he sure as hell hadn’t meant to post it to Twitter.)


	18. Chapter 18

Bucky walks through the door to Lucky barking loudly, and it’s difficult to hear anything over it but he does, as he gets closer, make out the swearing from behind the kitchen counter. 

He circles the counter and is unsurprised - unsurprised but pissed as hell - to see Clint sprawled out on the floor, attempting to lever himself back up to his feet with a crutch and one of the kitchen cabinets. 

Clint continues working at it for a second or two, oblivious, and then Bucky shifts his weight and the shadows move. Clint’s attention snaps up to his face, and then he glares at the dog. 

“Snitch,” he accuses. 

“What did I say?” Bucky asks, low. Clint scowls and looks away, and he doesn’t have his aids in, which is a more passive protest than Bucky finding him sprawled on the floor like this. Bucky kneels down, scoots into Clint’s eye line, and signs carefully.  _What did the doctor say?_

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint mutters mutinously, “you both said for me to stay upstairs and slowly die to death of boredom.” 

“We said,” Bucky says, signing carefully along with the words he knows and trusting Clint’s lip-reading - wasn’t like his parents gave enough of a shit to learn sign - to pick up the rest. “We said you should stay upstairs and not fuck up the break any further.  _I_  said -” 

“I should text you, yeah, I  _know_.” 

He kicked out his legs and slumped back against the counter, looking like a sulking teenager aside from the lines of pain on his face, which aged him, which made Bucky scared in a hundred new ways. 

(That was what love was, he was beginning to work out. A hundred new flavours of fear; a thousand new petty annoyances; a fuckin’ infinity of new reasons to smile.)

“C’mon,” Bucky said, holding out his hands and hauling Clint to his feet, hating the little noises of pain that he couldn’t do a fuckin’ thing to hold in. “C’mon, let’s get you upstairs, huh?” 

“Can’t make me,” Clint said, sulkily, and Bucky snorted. 

“Oh I can make you,” he said, and Clint’s eyes darted from his mouth to his eyes, his own widening, and that - that wasn’t a pain noise. 

_Huh._


	19. Chapter 19

The personal assistant, Marius, quailed under the focused icy stare of the former assassin known as the Winter Soldier. He was unarmed, sure - oh god, thank the good lord he’d kept that in his  _inside_  voice - or he wouldn’t have got so far past security, but there was no doubt the man was dangerous. 

There was also - Marius swallowed, his throat a little tight - no doubt that the man was quite incredibly beautiful. Even with his jaw locked tight, his face a little flushed with anger, his hair disarrayed with the speed he’d approached. 

“I - er. I don’t know if she’s available?” he wavered, and flinched back as the Soldier pointed something at his face; it only became obvious that it was one of their magazines because it uncoiled a little, ‘100 FINEST -’ flapping at him accusingly in bright red text. 

“How about you find out,” the Soldier said. His voice wasn’t threatening, specifically, in itself, in the way that a wolf’s tooth cannot, in isolation, be called a killer. 

“Marge?” Marius called back over his shoulder, his own voice giving away just about everything about his state of mind, and it was kinda reassuring how quickly she came out to defend him, attempting to untangle the glasses that hung on a chain around her neck from the tangle of a thousand necklaces he couldn’t persuade her to give up. 

“Oh,” she said, impressively disdainful. “It’s you. Pissed that your blond buddy hit the numbers a little higher? You’re a lovely boy, but you haven’t got America’s ass.” 

“No,” the Soldier gritted out, but the ice in his voice was melting a little, maybe from the heat of embarrassment. Marge’d do that to you. 

“Invasion of privacy, then? Hate to break it to ya, sugar, but we do more for the Avengers’ positive media image than -” 

“I don’t give a shit about that,” the Soldier growled. He unrolled the magazine and slapped it down on Marius’ desk, his metal finger underlining the ‘NEW YORK’S 100 FINEST’ title, the dumb feature they’d done on the superheroes, paramedics, firefighter, police that helped to keep the city safe. “What I wanna know is, where the hell is Clint?” 


	20. Chapter 20

He’s too clean, too neat and pressed and trying hard to be somethin’ he ain’t, but when Bucky backs him into an alley it’s because he figures he’s  _queer,_  not from the  _fuckin’ future_. 

“I, er,” the guy says, and he’s rubbing his palm across the short hair at the nape of his neck, the intriguing sound of calluses catching. He’s flushed, his mouth a little red, a little wet, and even with the cuckoo revelations it’s more than a little distracting. “I don’t -” 

“What, they don’t have queer people where you’re from?” Bucky asks, folding his arms across his chest, his mouth curled into somethin’ that looks like a grin but still holds the edge of teeth. 

“Where I’m from, queer people can get  _married_ ,” the guy says, and that’s. 

 _Shit_. 

He kinda feels it like a punch to the chest. It’s a little hard to breathe around it. Fuck Howard Stark and his flying cars, this is - 

The guy - Clint. Clint was what he’d called himself, when he’d been staring at Bucky’s mouth, and it ain’t his fault he’d tangled them into crossed wires. Clint steps forward and - no hesitation - pulls Bucky into his arms. The kinda hug you get from your ma, from Stevie, who’s never been much of a one for convention. None of the manly back slapping denials of anything close to feelings, this hug makes you  _feel_  it. 

“Yeah,” Clint murmurs, “I know. I promise you’re gonna see it.” 

“So I’m gonna make it through the war?” 

There’s a moment almost like a flinch, but Bucky’s so relieved to hear agreement that he doesn’t ask about it. Relieved enough to tilt his head up again, pull Clint’s down. Relieved enough to get the kinda kiss that a soldier is due, day before he heads off to the war. 

“And I’m gonna see you, after?” 

“I - eventually,” Clint says, and his hips are all close up to Bucky’s stomach, and there’re other kindsa goodbyes he’d like, if they’re on offer. So he doesn’t ask any more questions. 

 

He shoulda asked more questions. 


	21. Chapter 21

“This is a bad town for such a pretty face.” 

Clint tipped his hat back away from his face; he kinda misjudged how bad the damned thing fit. He picked it up outta the dust and tried to look casual as he beat it against his leg, looking the guy up and down from his pretty tooled leather boots up the brim of his black hat. 

“This is a bad audience for a hell of a shitty line, Clint told him, matter-of-fact. “Now maybe you were aiming for Natalia, couldn’t tell, but if that’s the case you oughta be grateful your bullshit reached me instead.” He smirked, making no effort to appease. “You also might wanna be grateful that I’m only passing through, ‘cos that’s a hell of a lousy aim.” 

Well I sure can’t see any Natalia,” the guy said, and Clint spun on his heel - nearly tripping on the damned spurs on his stolen boots - and swore loudly at the sun-drenched width of the empty street. 

“Please tell me there ain’t a saloon nearby.” 

“Your lady got a drinkin’ problem?” He tucked his long hair behind his ear; Clint tried not to watch his fingers. 

“My lady ain’t my lady,” he shot back, “but her problem is a fight-startin’ problem, and mostly that leads to a ‘me gettin’ hit in the face’ kinda problem, so you wanna help me find her?” 

“Saloon’s across the street,” Black Hat said, and fell into step beside Clint as he headed on over. Clint eyed him sidelong. 

“Any punchin’ problems end up mine in the end,” he said, with a casual shrug. “Bein’ the deputy in these parts, and all.” He grinned, and gave Clint a sidelone look of his own. “Besides, punchin’ ain’t what’s wanted with a face as pretty as that.” 


	22. Chapter 22

Bucky sat by the window, all wrapped up in a blanket like a disgruntled grandpa, tracing lines through the condensation with the hand that wouldn’t feel the cold. 

Clint ran hot. Clint’d always run hot, even before the Incident; he switched it up between playing some kinda complicated game where the floor was lava, and curling up against Bucky’s back. Bucky petted his head when he was close enough, tried to coax him into staying, but they hadn’t made it outside today and Clint was kinda stir crazy. 

Bucky let out a frustrated breath when Clint darted off again. He heaved himself off the padded bench seat by the window and considered leaning up against one of the ancient rickety heaters, but they couldn’t be relied on; either they were barely pumping out heat or they were burning stripes into his ass. 

He headed up the iron stairs instead, his feet curling involuntarily against the frozen metal. 

The bed hadn’t held onto their morning warmth, not on a day like this, and Bucky swore quietly and unrelentingly as he burrowed into the rumpled sheets, keeping the ugly purple plaid blanket still all wrapped up tight. 

He ignored the thumping sounds from downstairs, the noise of a distant crash. 

The patter against the stairs, though, that made him bite down on a grin, unravelling himself just enough to be able to flip back the covers invitingly when Clint finally stood at the side of the bed. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, and Clint made a happy little noise when Bucky scratched behind his ear. “You manage to stay human for more than five goddamn minutes, and maybe I’ll suck your dick.”

Clint looked pained, torn, and Bucky huffed out a breath of a laugh and curled over onto his side, silently crowing when the long length of Clint slid between the sheets behind him, a scratchy stubbled kiss pressed against his neck. 

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

Clint can’t stop laughing as Bucky grabs him under the armpits and drags him across the grass, even when he gets perilously close to getting pantsed by an over-affectionate tree root. When they come to a stop and Bucky flops down by his side the sun is filtered through green leaves, made almost neon by the bright light. 

On reflection, Bucky was probably right; Clint can feel the tightened skin across his cheekbones, the incipient sting. 

“Swear to god I can’t take you anywhere.” Bucky’s rummaging through the bag he’d insisted on bringing along, and for a moment Clint’s belly tightens to match the flushed skin on his face. Fuck it. If he finds it, he finds it. The end result’s the same. 

“Idiot,” Bucky says, stroking cool gel across Clint’s skin, the cool scent of aloe vera a diametric opposite to the warm fondness in his voice. Clint reaches up to catch his fingers, pressing a kiss against cool metal, then making a face and scrubbing the bitter gel off his lips. 

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says, but he’s laughing, and he wipes the back of his hand across Clint’s mouth before leaning in to press their lips together. 

Sudden cool dimness protects Clint’s face, the medicinal taste of the gel swept away by Bucky’s tongue. 

When Bucky pulls away Clint can feel the idiot grin he’s wearing, the grin that makes the kisses Buckt can’t seem to help returning for a little clumsy. 

“Hey, where’s my snack bag?” Clint asks, all casual, and Bucky bites his lower lip and looks a little guilty. 

“C’mon Clint,” he says, “Slim Jims and Twinkies in a crumpled paper bag ain’t a picnic.” 

“I’m hoping the bag’s still in the kitchen,” Clint says, a little faintly, and Bucky tolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, you can still have your shitty snacks tonight. It’s right where you left it.” 

“Okay,” says Clint, and takes Bucky’s hand in his, noticing idly that his own hands are kinda shaking. “Guess I’ll have to do this without a ring, then.” 

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

It’s Bucky Barnes Day, so Clint takes the boat out early enough that it’s still dark, early enough that no one can talk to him. Not that there’re many who’d want to; Steve and him fell out over the whole Bucky Barnes Day thing in the first place, and Nat -

Well. She _s_ _ays_  she’s forgiven him.

Clint just couldn’t continue. Widow Hawk - the unexpectedly nimble jaeger that the techs had nicknamed Black Eye - has been rusting in the hangar since that final, decisive strike. Every other jaeger has been run out weekly for the past three years, kept sharp and trim, kept as a threat. But after Steve had come back in StarBucks alone…

Clint likes the open ocean better than he likes people, these days. That’s all. Likes learning to drift with it, learning its secrets and its lies.

Fact that he doesn’t have to sit in a ticker tape parade for the love of his life, rictus grin and waving and still somehow invisible in front of all those people -

Giant monsters, giant robots, and people still ain’t ready to know their heroes are queer. It’s a hell of a thing.

Clint drops the anchor on the Lucky Kate finally when the sun’s well on it’s way to burning the melancholy out of him.

Or at least to giving him a pain he can slap aloe on, anyway.

He casts his lines, puts his hat over his face and lets the gentle rocking soothe him to sleep.

Clint wakes to splashing, to a heavy knock that judders through the boat. He startles uptight, automatically checking the various lines, but it’s not until he circles the cabin that he sees what’s causing it; some asshole in a jaeger suit, climbing over the side of his boat.

“Hey!” He snaps out, “what the hell’re you -“

His voice dries to dust in his mouth when the guy flips salt-soaked hair away from his face, fixes him with a desperate gaze from eyes he dreams about every damn night.

“…Bucky?”

“Clint! You have to - Clint, they’re _coming back!_ ”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to previous

Clint groans a muzzy refusal, rolling over to sling a heavy arm and leg over Bucky, who wriggles against him in a way that ensures at least one part of him is goddamn awake.

“No,” Clint mumbles. “Tell y’r sidepiece he can fuck off.”

That’s how he always refers to Steve, as Bucky’s sidepiece - in retaliation, Bucky calls Natasha Clint’s wife, which has led to some unfortunate misunderstandings and a media collage on the wall that Bucky finds *hilarious*.

“Gotta go, sweetheart,” Bucky says, but he still allows Clint to lean in and steal lush, slow kisses, going still under him and winding a hand into Clint’s mussed hair.

“No,” Clint says, stubborn, but he’s already letting Bucky pull away, grabbing Bucky’s hand and laying a couple kisses in the palm for him to take with him.

“Sorry, honey,” Bucky says, clambering out of the bunk they share, way too small for two grown men, and stretching when he hits the floor. “Gotta go save the world.” He’s fuckin’ beautiful, every inch of him, and Clint lets his eyes drag over him.

“Jesus,” he says. “The things I wanna do to you.”

“Save it for when I get back,” he says, hard dick and cocky smirk, and Clint flips him off, ducking under the covers, not even watching him walk out the door.

May 5th. First annual Bucky Barnes Day.


	26. Chapter 26

Clint had stumbled out of the front door of his building, the both of them scuffed around the edges but trying for Sunday best, window boxes and a borrowed tie. Outside had been the kinda car you see - well, all the time in New York, actually, but always from a distance. A couple feet, a pane of bulletproof, reality-proof glass between him and it, only this time James Buchanan Barnes - Bucky to his friends - was leaning up against it in a suit that Clint couldn’t even afford to breathe on. 

“Hey,” Clint’d said, palming the back of his neck, and he’d considered turning around and climbing the scuffed linoleum stairs only Bucky’d smiled at him, wide and unstudied and like he  _meant_  it. Clint was friends with Natasha, okay, and even so he wasn’t sure anyone could lie that good. 

So Clint had climbed into the back of the limo. Thought filthy thoughts on leather seats, blushed brick red and somehow ended up laughing at himself when Bucky had caught him at it. He wasn’t - Clint hadn’t thought he’d be sweet like this. Hadn’t thought he’d be driven in a beautiful goddamn limo to a little family-run Italian restaurant where Clint could recognise every dish. Could afford most of ‘em, too. 

Bucky let him talk. Bucky watched him talk, occasionally moved his glass out of the way of his gesturing hands, but easy, like he wasn’t judging it. Bucky watched him with an intent expression and an expensive suit, and he was about the most beautiful thing Clint had ever seen, but Clint even managed to forget about waiting for point where he accidentally fucked it up.  

He was in the middle of a story about the circus when he looked up, caught himself off-guard; they’d placed a candle on the table and it caught golden glints in the stubble on Bucky’s jaw, and Clint trailed to a stop, caught his breath in his chest and his life in his hands and leaned forward. 

Bucky smiled at that, too. One of the real ones. 


	27. Chapter 27

Clint, kinda fascinated, brushes his fingers through the stubble just beside Bucky’s mouth. Light enough not to wake him, just like the dawn through the window; light enough not to wake him, but enough to spark flecks of silver where there has only ever been dark. 

“Whatcha doin’?” Bucky mumbles, without opening his eyes, his hair spread out a little on the pillow. Clint bites his lip, guilty, but not guilty enough to stop touching. He brushes his thumb over to touch chapped skin, and Bucky’s lips move in a lazy kiss against his calluses. 

“I keep,” Clint says, and his voice is still low with sleep too, but not so layered with it as Bucky’s is. “I keep thinking I’m not gonna find new things to love.” He feels like an idiot saying it, but Bucky’s got his eyes closed, and somehow that makes it okay. Maybe later, he can pretend this part is a dream. “I keep thinking that, y’know, that’s it, I’m all full up, my heart can’t get any fuller.” 

Bucky’s lips are curving into a slow smile. Making that happen is just about Clint’s favourite thing. 

“And then you - “ Clint founders, lost a little for words. “You made a wasabi face. I never saw that before.” 

“Wasabi is a fuckin’ trap,” Bucky says, and Clint lifts his hand to brush against the three precise lines that fold him into frowning. He loves those, too. 

“Wasabi face,” Clint says. “And that dumb cookie cat shirt you bought. The whole west field you haven’t mowed because you’re too much of a sucker to relocate the fuckin’ rabbits.” 

“Fuck you,” Bucky says, and Clint traces down to next to his mouth again. 

“These silver hairs, here,” he says. “I’m never gonna be done. I’m gonna die lovin’ you.”


	28. Chapter 28

Clint’s slumped outside the apartment door, tremors running through him and his fists clenched against his knees. When Bucky comes out to join him he immediately relaxes, but miserably, and he looks for a second like he’s gonna aim his collapse away from Bucky, right up until Bucky reaches out to curl a hand behind his head.

“What’s got in your head now?” Bucky asks, because this is right at the limit of the distance they can be apart right now, within inches, and he’s almost certain it ain’t anything he did.

Clint doesn’t take much persuading in, when it comes to it. He allows Bucky to pull him forward until his head’s resting in the metal crook of Bucky’s shoulder, the rest of him rearranging around what he so clearly wants.

“I don’t wanna - soulmates is so much pressure,” Clint says. “You barely even know my name yet.”

“Francis,” Bucky says, thoughtfully, and Clint groans into his collarbone.

“Okay, but -“ he looks up, his hair rubbing and frizzing against Bucky’s shirt. “There’s so much about me to hate,” he says. “I figure I should give you space, ease you into it.”

Bucky considers that. Considers the consideration behind that, even if it’s misguided enough to be a little painful. He tightens his hold on Clint, wraps him in where he fits just right, ‘Cos that ain’t just metaphorical, either. “Seems like the universe figures there’s way more I’ll love,” he says.


	29. Chapter 29

Clint stumbled out of his fur, tangling himself up in newly long limbs and collapsing at Bucky’s feet, naked and euphoric. 

“Oh wow,” he said, he half-laughed, “oh, man, you’ve gotta try this.” 

“Tried it,” Bucky said flatly. “I  _am_ it, Clint, remember? The monster, the biting, the -” 

“The part where you saved my life?” Clint regarded him, head tilted to one side. “Sure, I remember.” He stretched himself out a little, unselfconscious, the mark from Bucky’s teeth outlined in white against the skin of his neck. He inhaled, slow, closing his eyes. “The biting was  _good_.” 

“You’re making this very h-” Bucky choked slightly. “Clint, you ain’t making this easy.” 

“Making what easy?” 

“The part where I don’t take advantage,” Bucky said, flat and more than a little angry, even though he hated how that made Clint quail. He rubbed a hand across his face, across the goddamn stubble that he could never get rid of for long. “This is all new to you, and it’s easy to confuse - there are a lot of instincts to sort through, and -”

“And you smell amazing,” Clint said, nodding. “I can see how that’d be a problem.” 

“Well, I mean,” Bucky said, shifting awkwardly, his cheeks a dull red, “I mean, that ain’t a given, but -” 

“No, I figured.” Clint got fluidly to his feet; shoulda been a wolf thing, but that had always been something about Clint. He was clumsy as all hell, mostly ‘cos he was too busy keeping track of what everyone else was doing to keep control of his own limbs. Give him time in only his own body, and he was a fuckin’ trained gymnast and made sure you knew it. 

Bucky swallowed. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. 

“I figured,” Clint repeated, “‘cos I’ve been sorting through smells all day, and all of them are interesting but none of ‘em are interesting like you.” 

“Clint,” Bucky attempted, throat dry, but he didn’t make a move to stop Clint as he curved himself in closer, ducked in close so he could run the cold tip of his nose up the line of Bucky’s neck. 

“If it helps, this ain’t new,” Clint murmured, low like breathing, like Bucky’s pulse, thump of blood in his fingertips and his temples. 

“What?” 

“I mean, I never knew you smelled like this -” the soft sensation of moving air, as Clint stole another breath, and the barest suggestion of warm wet tongue just below his ear - “but the wanting…”

Bucky couldn’t help the low sound, like a growl, that tore out of his throat. Couldn’t help reaching up to tangle his fingers into Clint’s messy hair and pull him closer, take a deep breath and taste his skin. 

 

 


	30. Chapter 30

“Well that was a shitshow,” Clint said, hands on hips, regarding the heap of fragmented logs that had been all that Steve’s posturing and Tony’s competitive repulsoring had left behind.

Bucky shrugged one shoulder, hugging himself a little in the cool fall evening. “Kindling, I guess?” He said, and it was worth kinda sounding like an idiot for the snort and the sideways grin.

“Fuck it,” Clint said, “they can rake it all together for that tomorrow.” He rolled the cuffs of his shirt back, bare forearms worth every bite of dessert Bucky had missed out on, following him out here.

Clint went over to grab the axe that the idiot duo had left leaning against the wood shed, and Bucky had a moment of instinctive fear that he pushed aside; Clint was a hell of a lot more capable than any Avenger save Natalia seemed to credit, he just never seemed to know when he was pushing himself too far. Bucky decided to trust that he wasn’t gonna cut off his own foot, and settled himself on the steps of the porch, leaning back on his elbows and making no pretence that he wasn’t watching every second.

“See something you like?” Clint asked, hefting the axe and then taking his first swing.

There were a million idiot puns that Bucky coulda made. Clint seemed more thrown off his swing by Bucky’s quiet, sincere, “yes.”


	31. Chapter 31

Clint just kinda made sad noises into the phone, rather than recording a proper answerphone message, so Bucky didn’t bother leaving a reply and skipped straight to making his way across town. 

Took a while, the constant banging bringing Simone outside for an exasperated eye roll that woulda been a hell of a lot worse if it was time for the kids to be in bed. Eventually she stomped over and started yelling. 

“Clint, if you don’t get your ass out here I’m gonna cut the bits off your boy that you like best!”

There was a distant thump, disgruntled mumbling, and Bucky grinned at her before she went back across the hall. 

“Glad to know you’ve got your priorities right,” Bucky said, turning around, and then just about swallowed his tongue. 

“Well I couldn’t have her cutting your hair,” Clint said, with a wry grin, and led the way in. Bucky just about tripped over his feet, following him. 

Everything looked the same as it ever did - a chaotic state with archery equipment just about the only thing organised neatly - and Clint wound his way between the piles of possessions with the ease of long practice. He set himself down at the table by the kitchenette and picked up the arrow he’d half-finished fixing the fletching on, his fingers long and knobbly and callused and careful. The angle-poise lamp caught sparks in his hair and the stubble around his mouth, and the sleeves of his chunky-knit cardigan were pushed up around his elbows, and the glasses - the source of Bucky’s current breakdown - were pulled down low on his nose. 

He looked kinda old. Kinda old, and kinda tired, and kinda like the shape of everything Bucky wanted, every ambition he’d ever had. Give him an old record player in the corner of the room and Bucky’d have maybe dreamed about this, just this, nothing more complicated than how happiness was all tied up in one man. 

“Hey, Clint?” Bucky said, swallowing down every one of the reservations that’d sent him away in the first place, and Clint hummed inquisitively without looking up, his old flesh-colored BTEs good enough to pick up Bucky’s voice even when it was threadbare with wanting. “You still want me to move in?” 


	32. Chapter 32

Clint can hear Bucky coming from a fucking mile off, determined and lopsided clanging interspersed with slightly wobbly swearing. Bucky  _hates_  the vents, says it reminds him of the cryotube. Which is a) why Clint was up here in the first place, and b) the most likely source of the butterflies in Clint’s stomach. 

“I woulda come out,” Clint says, just as soon as Bucky rounds the corner. “I can come out if you want.”

Clint figures that the vent system for the new Avengers base had actually been designed with him in mind, ‘cos there’s no real reason for any part of them to be this big. It was like a ready-made clubhouse, and Clint kinda loves it. Bucky slumps into the opposite corner, taking a deep breath like the room to stretch out is making room for his lungs. 

“What’d we do?” He says eventually, and Clint examines the ceiling joists rather than look his way. 

“What makes you think anyone did anything?” 

He doesn’t need to see Bucky to know he’s rolling his eyes. 

“We’re in a fucking vent, Clint.” 

Clint shrugs a little, hugs his knees to his chest. Bucky starts gently tapping his fingers against the metal wall, and it’s that noise more than anything that makes Clint talk - Bucky’s clearly uncomfortable and wants like hell to leave, and the fact that he hasn’t yet is playing merry hell with the butterflies. 

“I hate that you guys make accommodations to make me feel included,” he said eventually, and it comes out a little hurt, ‘cos he’d really been enjoying the dumb competitions before he’d worked it out. He was a goddamn  _god_  on Singstar.

“The hell d’you mean?” 

“Steve and you have races,” he said. “Tony and Bruce do their competitive science thing. You and Natasha and Bruce and Tony are having some kinda chess tournament, and Wanda and Strange do their -” he waggled his fingers, demonstratively. “And then there’s me, and you guys setting up dumb contests -” 

“Team bonding activities,” Bucky corrected. 

“ - just to make me feel included. I don’t need pity.” 

“Kinda arrogant to decide you’re the whole reason we’re doin’ ‘em,” Bucky said, and Clint looked back over at him, trying on a glare. 

“The latest was a Great Avengers Baking Show,” he said. “Which I comprehensively lost, too, so it’s not like it worked.” 

“It worked fine,” Bucky said, looking a little awkward, ducking his head. “Made you smile, didn’t it?”  

 

 


	33. Chapter 33

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much.” 

The Soldier considers dropping the man back to the ground. Letting go of the arm from which he’s practically dangling and leaving him here with the other detritus from his mission. The fact that the man had joined in to fight on his side, though, with no other reason than the fact that the Soldier was outnumbered fifteen to one -

“Did you - hey!”

He ignores the man’s wriggling, hauling him into his arms with a grunt of effort. He is young, but he is taller than the Soldier. The limbs are inconvenient. He would have slung the man over his shoulder, but the way he had been moving would suggest that his ribs are at the very least cracked, and there is a strange instinct for preservation that is making itself known. 

“I can -” 

“Look after yourself,” the Soldier says. “I heard. I don’t think it’s true.” 

“Fuck you, I’ve been -” 

“I don’t think you’re lying,” the Soldier clarifies over him, “I just don’t think it’s true.” He considers, for a long moment. “You can get by on your own,” he says, a half-remembered echo, “thing is, you don’t have to.” 

The man - really, little more than a boy - subsides. Perhaps agreement. More likely, he is in no position to fight. The Soldier does not take him to the rendezvous point, but instead finds somewhere hidden and protected, and he is two weeks late in his return. 

He is punished. 

It is worth it for the ease with which the boy had scrabbled away, awkward thanks left in his wake. 

 

*

 

Bucky follows on Steve’s heels, shying away from touching anything in this clean tower, keeping his head ducked down and his hands tucked in. Steve leads him into a common area, already talkin’ about the room he’s got put by for Bucky, the way they’re gonna look after him. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, his voice scratching out of his throat like a cornered animal. “I can get by on my own.” 

Steve opens his mouth to respond, but it’s the guy on the couch - the guy Bucky had been too overwhelmed to even see - who responds. 

“Thing is,” he says, and he’s unfolding himself up into standing, and there’s something familiar in his ungainly limbs, “you don’t have to.”


	34. Chapter 34

Bucky followed the distant tapping, winding between the stacks until he got to the desk, standing there for a good 30 seconds before the guy - who was drumming a spirited solo on the wooden surface, complete with spinning drumsticks and flourishes - even looked up. He pulled off the huge headphones he was wearing, taking a second to adjust the hearing aids that he was wearing underneath before facing Bucky with a winning smile.

“Help you?” 

They were some good goddamn dimples, and it took Bucky a second to blink away his distraction and offer up a slow smile of his own. 

“Not often I gotta be the one to tell the librarian to keep it down,” he said, and the dimples faded away to be replaced by a bright flush. 

“Oh man, I’m sorry,” the guy said, palming the back of his neck, sheepish. “I didn’t realise I was being loud. Again.” He winced a little, and reached over to a stack of photocopies that were conveniently to hand. “If you wanna make a complaint, I’ve got a pen here somewhere -” 

“Not when Stevie has violated every public nookie rule that ever existed with that Stark kid,” he said. “You’re covering his shift?” 

“Yeah, hey.” The outstretched hand was intriguingly callused, larger than Bucky’s, and once that initial spark of attraction had settled in it was amazing the things your brain would settle on to reinforce it. He swallowed. 

“Hey, I’m Bucky.” 

“Right, the best friend, right. He talks about you pretty much non-stop. I’m Clint.” 

“Holy shit, the circus guy?” Bucky had been secretly tryin’ to angle a meet with the circus guy ever since Stevie had come home raving about him. About how he was flexible and seriously strong and had the most perfect fuckin’ aim. Ever since Steve had given him a sidelong look and said the guy was  _exactly_  Bucky’s type.

“He mentioned me?” Clint looked ridiculously pleased about this, and genuinely kinda shocked, like someone being impressed by his ability to hit a falling leaf with a beer bottle top from across the goddamn street was somehow strange. 

“Yeah, he told me good things.” Bucky looked Clint as far up and down as was possible with him perched behind the desk, and then tried another of his repertoire of grins. Clint put on another to match, wide and bright and all kindsa trouble, and Bucky grabbed one of the complaints forms and a pen from his pocket, writing his number in careful block digits. “How about you give me a call when you’re somewhere you can make noise again, huh?” 

“Well that sounded unintentionally filthy,” Clint said, a little dazed, a big fuckin’ grin on his face. 

“Unintentionally?” Bucky asked, and dropped him a wink before sauntering out. 

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

“No! Don’t hurt them! Hurt me, leave them alone!”

Bucky let out a long breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Hey JARVIS?” 

“Sergeant Barnes?” 

“Can you get DUM-E to back off?” 

JARVIS’ voice was a little snippy when he responded. 

“I have yet to make DUM-E do anything it doesn’t want to do, I’m afraid.”

Bucky heaved himself out of the comforting embrace of the couch and went to stand in front of the advancing robot, his back to where Clint was hunched protectively. 

“Tony, huh?” he said. DUM-E rotated its claw, for all the world looking inquisitive. Bucky took a step forward, making the robot back off, and then a step to the side when the ‘bot attempting to clumsily duck around him. “Tony wants you to get rid of the sneakers, right? Believe me, we all want to get rid of the goddamn sneakers.” 

Clint made a noise that was offended and a little hurt and thoroughly ridiculous. Bucky tossed a look over his shoulder, taking in Clint’s sad face with the kind of helpless resignation that had pretty much been his constant companion since the first time the guy had goddamn smiled at him. 

“How about I get him to wash the fuckin’ things?” he said, conciliatory. “Make them a little less offensive, huh?” 

DUM-E rotated his claw around to the other side, and then made a kinda lunging grab around Bucky that made Clint let out a frankly hilarious fuckin’ shriek. 

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky said, and grabbed Clint’s hand, tugging him to his feet, Clint’s other hand wrapped defensively around the source of the goddamn stank. “You can hide in my rooms,” he said, “but -” figuring he had to use his advantage, “no way I’m gonna suck you off until those things’ve been through the laundry, they smell like death.” 


	36. Chapter 36

“Hey.”

 

Bucky snapped out of his daily commuting daze, blinking up at the guy towering over him and still halfway stuck in daydreams of the dinner waiting for him at home.

(Steve was having Sam over, and they were still in the cute phase where they tried to impress each other, so Bucky was expecting some of Sam’s mom’s amazing gumbo.)

“Hey,” the guy said again, this time with a cute kinda sideways smile that made Bucky’s stomach make a leap for his throat. “You mind if I sit here?”

Bucky gestured for him to take a seat, ‘Cos his stomach had apparently recognised the guy before he did; he’d started catching the train a couple weeks before, and since that first ride - when they’d accidentally caught each others’ eyes, and Bucky had fallen a little in love with the guy’s smile - he’s been a staple highlight of Bucky’s evening routine.

“You usually get on in a couple more stops,” Bucky said, and then almost bit his tongue, ‘Cos he was usually a thousand times smoother than this. Then again, the guy’s smile widened, his eyes kinda crinkling at the corners, so Bucky musta done something right.

“Visiting my friend today,” he said, and ducked his head a little. “She said this time I had to actually say hey.”

He looked up, this smile a little apologetic when he saw what had to be a pretty startled expression on Bucky’s face.

“This time?” He asked, and the guy pulled a face.

 

“I’ve been getting the wrong train for two weeks,” he said. “I misheard a goddamn station announcement and went the opposite way from where I was headed.”

“For two weeks?” Bucky asked, sceptical, but something good growing with it. Something that made him lean a little back in his seat, slouching down just slightly, a suggestion of spreading his thighs.

“Once,” The guy said, “and then I saw you.” It was gratifying as hell, the way he kinda sounded like he’d swallowed his tongue.


	37. Chapter 37

“It’s crazy, huh?” 

Clint turned his head - wrong way, first, ‘cos the rustle of constant noise was fucking with his ears - and grinned a little. Bucky was wearing one of his shitty threadbare ball caps, the ones he’d brought back from Europe with him, like they’d even heard of decent sports over there. Clint lifted his hand to flick the brim, but Bucky caught it before he got there. Wouldn’t let him take it back. 

“You looked good in uniform,” Clint said, and Bucky snorted. 

“I wear a uniform every day.” 

Clint laughed, and it bubbled up through him like the good kinda drunk, summer and cool glass and day taking its time over easing into night. 

“That bondage gear you wear is about as much a uniform as the spandex from the circus.”

“And don’t forget you promised to show me that, someday.” 

If anything was crazy, that was. The way Bucky’s eyes went dark when he looked at him. The way there was the edge of a bitten lip to his smile. 

“What’s crazy?” Clint said, and waved a hand at the exhibit, at the towering photos, and the mannequins in uniform, and the carefully preserved letters and diaries that Clint would do about anything to read. “Out of all of this, what strikes you as particularly nuts?” 

“I mean, I hadta be born there,” Bucky says, and he taps at a screen that shows him and Steve laughing together, easy and close and just starting on occasion to reappear. “I had to meet Stevie, and look out for him, and make sure he made it far enough to be who he’d always been. D’you believe in fate?” he asks, and Clint looks at the two of ‘em, together like that, and shrugs. 

“You kinda have to, right?”

“I do,” Bucky says, with the kinda certainty he saves for important things, like the futility of war, and the betrayal of the Dodgers. “I gotta. ‘cos I know I had to grow up there for Stevie, but then I got one look at a loudmouth punk from Iowa who never learned how to take on fights the right size, and I knew that the whole time I was waitin’ for you.”


	38. Chapter 38

Something in Bucky’s eyes eases when he sees Clint, curled up on Natasha’s couch. Clint smiles like he always does, ‘cos practice makes perfect, and scrambles into sitting so there’s room for Bucky too. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky says, and it kinda occurs to Clint all of a sudden how silent it’d gotten; how long it’s been since the conversation stopped and Nat went off to do whatever Nat did. He’d meant to put on some music, but the urge hadn’t made it much further than the edge of the couch. 

(Nat doesn’t trust things that listen to you.)

“Hey Bucky,” he says, rocking forward a little, ‘cos the urge is always to be as close to Bucky as possible. He’s working on it, though; he knows how he gets. “You guys done?” 

“Nat helped?” Bucky’s voice is low, and there’s something in there that Clint doesn’t recognise and therefore cannot trust. It’d be a non-sequitur if you didn’t know how Clint gets, shuffling sideways out from under people’s attention and smiling, curling up safe somewhere and usually behind Nat. 

Clint shrugs. It kinda feels like a loaded question. 

“It’s good you have her,” Bucky says. It ought to feel like an accusation, Clint’s pretty sure, but Bucky doesn’t tend to level those. Bucky doesn’t do a lot of things that Clint braces himself to expect, and things often feel a little off-balance in ways he doesn’t want to adjust to, ‘cos there’s no way they’re gonna last. 

“Nat’s the best,” Clint says, simple and true. 

Bucky finally makes a move into the room, and he sits on the couch, but there’s a whole lot of it that’s free real estate. He doesn’t have to take the part right next to Clint. 

Clint likes being a preference. Likes when Bucky makes that kinda choice.

“You have me too.” 

Clint’s brain stutters. When he says things like this - it ain’t easy to process it. It’d be easier if it was a command, or a demand, or a guilt trip. You have to know, or I want you to know, or why don’t you know that I love you; something easier to know how to react to than this. 

“Steve needed you,” he says, one shoulder hitched up, all the better to let things roll off. “It’s okay.” 

“And I’ve always got his back, like he’s got mine and like Nat’s got yours,” Bucky says. 

“Right,” Clint says, the truth of that a foundation under him. 

“But if you think he’s more important -” Bucky rubs a hand over his mouth - “well I guess I’ve been doin’ something wrong.” 

 

 


	39. Chapter 39

Bucky let himself collapse back onto the bed, the whole frame swaying uncertainly under him. He was doing his best to catch his breath, and he scratched and picked a little at the drying fluids caught in the hair below his belly button.

Soft laughter drifted up from the floor by the bed, but it took a second before Clint’s tousled - beyond tousled, it was a fuckin’ haystack - head appeared, wincing a little as he resituated his weight.

He rested his chin on the mattress, the bed frame groaning and settling a little askew. Bucky winced in his turn, trying not to think about the damage to his wallet.

Kinda worth it, though, for the grin, for the signs of overwhelmed tears left at the corners of Clint’s eyes. Bucky reached out and cupped Clint’s cheek, and Clint pressed his grin into Bucky’s palm.

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice was scraped raw in all the best ways. “I missed you.”

 

Clint laughed a little helplessly at that, the warmth of absolute certainty putting a little colour in his cheeks.

 

“Yeah,” he said happily. “I’m getting that.”


	40. Chapter 40

The Wednesday salsa nights, as far as they could work out, were used as a cover; the relative chaos allowed a variety of things to be moved out of the back without anyone noticing. Some of those things were causing chaos in clubs around the city, and funding the first flickering lunges of a brewing gang war. 

As technically the most junior member of the team - after Steve’s daring rescue and some hardcore counselling man hours - Bucky was shuffling back and forth, trying to keep an eye on the back of the room. The difficulty was in keeping his eyes off the damned instructor’s hips. 

Tall and built, the guy was winding between the pairs of dancers, guiding them with careful hands that never quite made contact. Right up until he reached the guy who had been edging into his partner’s space all night, clearly making her uncomfortable with his proximity. Him, the instructor danced right up against, making him visibly uncomfortable but too damned tall and wide to be told now. Bucky wasn’t close enough to hear what he whispered into the handsy dancer’s ear, but whatever it was it sure as hell did the trick. The guy backed off, white-faced and curled in on himself, and the instructor took over his place and soon had the girl laughing, putting a little flair into steps that she hadn’t dared before.

A few moments later he moved on, and Bucky swallowed hard as the guy circled into his space, long fingers brushing for just a second just above the line of his pants as the guy corrected his rhythm. 

“That a gun in your pants,” he murmured into Bucky’s ear, “or are you just pleased to see me?” and when Bucky reared back he dropped him the quickest flicker of a wink.  

From downstairs there were shouts, the crash of breaking wood; something had triggered an early incursion, and Bucky yelled for everyone to get down, pulling a gun from the small of his back and running towards the back of the room. The instructor guy darted behind the bar and came out holding a bow and arrow, of all goddamn things. 

Wasn’t just his dancing that Bucky couldn’t look away from,  _fuck_. 


	41. Chapter 41

Clint gets kinda bashful when he’s been drinking. Not in everything - he’ll get up on stage and belt out ridiculous ‘80s power ballads at the slightest fuckin’ provocation, but try to tell him he’s some kinda awesome and he’ll blush all pretty pink and disappear behind his spread hands. 

“Good shot today, Clint,” Steve says, and Bruce of all people starts a toast, and Clint buried his face in Bucky’s shoulder, close in enough that Bucky can feel him breathing out warm against the skin of his neck. It makes his stomach curl in on itself, all absurd for a goddamn assassin seventy years in the making. 

“You’re beautiful,” Bucky tells him later, when they’re all tidied away behind closed doors. “You gotta know how people can’t help looking at you.” 

“Don’t,” Clint says, and he can’t help his hips jerking up against Bucky’s moving hand, “please, don’t -” but Bucky knows the word he picked out and this ain’t even close to it. 

“It’s crazy you think you don’t deserve this.” Bucky twists his hand just a little, slick-slides his thumb, and Clint lets out a sob, tears leaking out from under the hand he’s got over his eyes. 


	42. Chapter 42

“Clint! Hey, Clint!” 

It wasn’t a voice Clint recognised, so he sighed, his shoulders hunching a little, and turned. It’d been worse back in Iowa, getting teased by diner waitresses, fielding pointed comments from guys in trucker hats who backed off a little when they realised how tall he was when he wasn’t just on their TV screen. He’d kinda hoped that he would be left alone in New York; the place was full enough of celebrities that surely no one would pay attention to someone who flunked out of a British baking show. 

“Hey,” he said, with a sideways kind of smile. 

The guy gave him an up and down look, and Clint kinda felt like his entire posture was an apology for letting the side down. He’d lasted through to the semis, managing to mangle his hand in a Magimix to the point that he couldn’t keep going, but it honestly hadn’t been looking good for him before that point; Paul and Mary hadn’t exactly been impressed by his filled pizza buns. 

“You were on that baking show, huh?” 

The guy’s voice was pure Brooklyn; the guys looks were right out of Clint’s dreams. 

“Yeah,” Clint said, and he shrugged one shoulder. “Sorry about that one.” 

He was kinda waiting for the guy to tell him where he’d gone wrong. He was used to getting some kinda rant about how he was an embarrassment for not coming top on the American pie showstopper; he was used to listening to other people’s opinions about all the places he’d gone wrong. It was kinda his worst nightmare. It was kinda people confirming what he always assumed they thought anyway. 

“Are you kidding?” the guy grinned, and it transformed his face; he’d looked a little like he was pondering grievous bodily harm before that point, but now his blue eyes were freakin’  _sparkling_  and Clint felt like he was gonna melt into a puddle. “You were  _incredible_. Jesus, that sour cherry pie looked -” he made a noise that really shoulda been behind closed doors. That Clint would give just about anything to hear, behind closed doors. 

Clint felt himself unfolding just a little, his mouth easing up into a grin. 

“I mean,” he said, “those buns, though.” 

The guy tucked his hair behind his ear, just so he could more intensely meet Clint’s eyes, the laser blue boring into his goddamn soul. 

“Clint,” he said, low and intense, “I wanna lick your goddamn buns.” 


	43. Chapter 43

He ain’t used to being shorter.

 

Ain’t used to tipping his head back, straining his neck a little because he can’t wait for a more comfortable position than this, Clint ducking down to him, smiling against his mouth.

 

It ain’t familiar to be so desperate that he’ll push up a little on his toes for it, demand with his lips what he ain’t managed to train his voice around, yet. It’s not an old thing to remember but a new thing to learn. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands; Clint’s got his bracketing Bucky’s face, warm and callused and blocking out the whole damn world.

 

It’s ain’t safe or comfortable or possible to stop, feeling this off balance, this in love.

 

 


	44. Chapter 44

“Tony said to maintain a perimeter,” Clint said, and Sciath snorted, her great head moving to get a better view of the battle, Clint shifting his weight as she tacked back and forth to diminish the effect of the wind. The carabiner straps were a necessity for most, a reassurance at most for him; he’d adjusted quickly to the balance needed on dragon back. Circus training wasn’t for nothing, turned out. 

“I’m maintaining,” Sciath insisted, her resonant voice reminding him irresistibly of Steve for a second, the mixture of defiance and defensiveness something she’d no doubt learned in the goddamn shell. 

“You’re itching to take on the ‘bots on 9th.” Clint couldn’t help the fondness that snuck in with his exasperation. “Fuck it, let’s go.” He couldn’t help laughing when she roared in delight, putting her speed to good use; the rest of her crew let out far unhappier noises, taken off balance by the sudden shift. Clint’d been tapped as captain for her after Steve - disappeared, he  _disappeared_ , they  _hadn’t found a body._  They figured that Clint was the only one that could make Steve’s Shield do what he wanted it to do; the truth was more that he just gave her her head and hoped for the best, took best advantage of where she wanted to go anyway. 

A darting shadow caught his eye, and Clint turned his head. 

“What the fuck -” 

There was a bellow of warning from the lookout, but too late - the man raced along the rooftop beside him and then flung himself over the parapet in what ought to have been a suicidal leap. Whatever the hell he was, it was clear he was enhanced - there was no way he should’ve been able to make the distance, but the lookout’s cry ended in a harsh gurgle as the man pulled a long bladed knife. The man in black cut his straps and flung him over the side, already moving forward to take on the next of the crew. 

“Clint?” Sciath cried, her voice pitched high with fear, “Clint, what’s happening?” 

There weren’t even that many in Sciath’s crew. She was fast but not large, though stronger and more vicious than her size would suggest. 

“Boarders,” Clint shouted back. “Keep going,” but she was already writhing in the air, unsettled and furious and unwilling to listen to a word he goddamn said, just like her captain. 

He turned, resigned by the silence, and found a man holding a gun like he knew what he was doing, gray eyes resolute over the mask that covered the lower half of his face. 

“Good luck with that,” Clint said, shrugging, spreading his hands. “She ain’t gonna do what you say, I’m not her captain.” 

The man’s eyes widened fractionally at that, and he reached up to tug his mask down, leaving it to hang around his neck. He was beautiful, Clint noted idly, the way that an avalanche is beautiful. Hell of a way to die. 

“You’re not her captain,” he said, low, not like he was disagreeing but like it was something he was confused to know. 

Sciath almost threw them both off their feet as her wings stuttered, and they dropped for a moment before she overcame her shock. 

“I know that voice,” she said, bewildered and shocked. “Bucky? Is that you?” 

“Who the hell is Bucky?” the man in black said. 

 

 


	45. Chapter 45

Clint was curled up and giggling, the laugh echoing through every line of his body, and Bucky was trapped across the table in the bar. This was, possibly, one of the milder circles of hell. Clint was killing him softly, tilting to one side and burying his head in Sam’s shoulder and exposing the length of his neck to Bucky’s hungry gaze.

He made good noises, when Bucky ran his tongue along the length of his neck. He made good noises and melted into him, and there was a lot of Clint to melt.

 

But right now the beer was melting Clint into Sam’s shoulder, and anyone other than Sam would pay some fuckin’ attention to the death glare he was wearing, but Sam had lost all fear once Bucky was done with hauling him out of the sky.

Sam ducked down and whispered something into Clint’s ear, Bucky tried to set fire to him with his gaze, and Clint caught Bucky’s eye and sent over one of those smiles that were how Bucky had finally believed he was in love. One of those ones. The ones no one else got.

 

 


	46. Chapter 46

It’s Sam’s idea, initially. He says he figures they’ve got to be prepared for getting fucked over sooner or later, EMPs disabling quinjets, or stranding in another dimension (again), or dinosaurs. Steve, because it’s Sam that said it, jumps in on the plan with both big feet, and before Bucky’s had time to blink they’re all standing by the hatch of a quinjet, looking out over endless woodland, and listening to a goddamn artificial intelligence promise to come pick them up in a few days. No one else seems disturbed enough by this. 

“So we’ll pair off into -” Steve starts, and Bucky pushes upright. 

“Clint,” he says, before Steve can even finish. “I pick Clint.” 

Clint looks around, a comic Laurel and Hardy double take, but it ain’t like Bucky’s gonna let anyone second guess - he’s marching across the clearing and grabbing Clint by the arm before anyone can make much of a protest, save for Steve flapping his neat list a little. 

“See ya later, losers,” Bucky says, dragging Clint off under the trees, one hand wrapped firmly around Clint’s bicep - or as far around as he can get it, anyway, which ain’t all that far. 

“What the hell,” Clint says, a little incredulous but mostly it’s flushed all through with pleased. 

“I’d kill any of the rest of ‘em,” Bucky says simply, like that ain’t only half an explanation, like that’s the sum and total of his reasons right there. And the way Clint looks - the way Bucky feels about how Clint looks - ain’t even all the rest of it. That’s more kinda gilding the lily. Most of the rest of it is how badly everyone has a habit of underestimating Clint. 

Not Natasha, maybe. That’s why Bucky’d spoken fast. He’s pretty sure she knows exactly what she’s got, here. Knows that whoever pairs up with Clint, they’re gonna have bow-shot dinner within a couple hours of stranding, knows they’re gonna have a campfire and someplace to sleep. Not only that though - all the skills that Bucky doesn’t wanna know how he knows, ‘cos he figures it’ll make him wanna discover time travel just to kill half the people Clint’s ever known. It’s also the part where they’re gonna be sitting - by their shelter, with their dinner - and Clint’s gonna tell him about watching the new David Attenborough, and all the things he’s learned about sharks. Clint’s not a natural reader - he can do it, but he’s not inclined - and like a lot of people who struggle with that his memory is a hundred percent. He’s bright and funny and self-effacing and clever in a bone-deep way, and Bucky would rather spend time with him than just about anyone else in this era, when it comes down to it. 

There’re words for that, probably. Maybe he’ll get around to admitting to ‘em soon. 


	47. Chapter 47

Clint slumped down low enough that he could rest his feet, crossed at the ankle, against the pole in the middle of the subway car, letting out a long sigh that felt like it came from his goddamn soul. Every time he blinked he could see glitter, like his whole life was some kinda Instagram filter. 

His phone buzzed against his ear, and he wondered, for a moment, if he shoulda maybe checked the time before calling, because on reflection - well, he could  _see_  his reflection, bright and rainbow-coloured, in the dark outside of the window, which kinda suggested it might be later at night than Natasha would -

The call picked up. There was a long and judgemental silence from the other end. 

“It’s Pride and no one even kissed me, what the fuck,” Clint said. 

The silence became, if possible, even more judgemental. It went on long enough for Clint to rethink a whole bunch of his life choices, long enough for them to hit a station and a bunch of people to shuffle on and shuffle off, and then the line went dead. 

“Crap,” Clint said. 

“Wrong number?” a voice asked, sympathetically, and Clint finished carefully tapping out ‘ _sorry there were pur pl shots’_ before looking up. 

“Just general poor decision-making.” His mouth helpfully managed that all on its own, ‘cos the hot guy in the ‘can’t even think straight’ shirt - the one Clint had almost worked up the courage to sit next to when he got on the train, and then had pathetically punked out on - had evidently given up his seat to an old lady with a huge sign. Clint squinted at it - 79 YEARS AIN’T A PHASE, it said, and Clint made a mental note to ask for a selfie with her before he got off the train. It just - wasn’t quite the priority right now. 

Hot guy winced. “Your ex?” 

“No.” Clint said. “Well, yes, but not like - she’s just gonna be pissed I woke her up.” 

“She,” the guy said, tucking his hair behind his ear, and his tone was a little flat, and Clint was gearing up to rant about all the goddamn reasons why he belonged at fuckin’ Pride, living up to the shirt Kate’d got him that told the world that he ‘put the Bi in Bitch’, when the guy’s finger traced gently under the Bi and just barely ghosted over his nipple. 

Clint about swallowed his tongue. 

“Definitely an ex?” the guy said, and then flashed Clint a look that raised the temperature in the place by about a million degrees. 

“I am pathetically single,” Clint said, hurried and embarrassingly eager. 

“Then I guess, if you want, I could help you out.” His smile was slow, and so very pretty, and Clint never got around to asking for that selfie. 

*

Clint’s phone buzzed at some hideous pre-noon hour. He stumbled out of bed, nearly tripped over the damn dog, and got halfway down the stairs before he found his goddamn boxers, pulling them on to the judgemental silence in his ear. 

“Nat,” he hissed, keeping his voice low, “it’s Pride and someone kissed me, what the fuck?” 


	48. Chapter 48

The bar ain’t far outside of town, but it’s like another world. There’s some kinda ren faire going on on the outskirts, and Bucky is getting happily drunk on a picnic table outside a bar, surrounded by corsets and armor and jesters hats. 

“We shoulda been halfway to Chicago by now,” Steve frets, looking at the watch his rich boyfriend gave him, heavy on his skinny wrist. Bucky grins, a little sloppy, and toasts him with a stein. (They have steins, here. Bucky’s tempted to move in.) 

“Relax a little, Stevie,” he says. “We can go back to that place we saw in town, get a room for the night.” 

Steve scowls, his whole face screwing up around it. 

“I ain’t sharing with you when you’re drunk,” he says, “you get handsy.” 

“Yeah, well maybe I’ll find someone else I can get handsy with.” He hadn’t been thinking about it, really - he’s been getting over The Asshole Who Shall Not Be Named for the better part of two months, now - but there’s something about the guys here… the unreality of it, maybe. Like a time outside of time, a kinda holiday fling. 

He idly scans the crowd, then involuntarily straightens up when he sees - 

The guy is tall enough to stick out from the crowd, his hair all tousled like he’s just got out of bed. He’s dressed like an archer, like Robin Hood, tight-fitting brown leather pants, a green vest over a loose white shirt that’s laced low over his chest. He’s got leather cuffs on both wrists, which wasn’t something that Bucky had realised would hit him so hard, before now. He’s holding a longbow loosely in one hand, one end resting on the ground, and his other hand might just as well be in Bucky’s pants, he’s got him so goddamn hard so fast. 

“”Hey Robin,” he hollers, while Steve kinda groans and covers his face. “I got a spot you can hit.” 

The guy startles, then looks him up and down, a slow smile growing on his face and a little flush coming along with it, like he doesn’t know he’s the sexiest thing going. 

“Yeah? Well I am a hell of a shot.” 

Bucky grins, made a show of licking his lower lip. 

“I dunno,” he says, lowering his voice a little as the guy saunters over. “If my asshole ex is any indication, it can be kinda hard to hit.” 

“Trust me,” the archer says, close enough now to reach out and lightly tug on the ends of Bucky’s hair, a short sharp pain that settles into the space behind Bucky’s sternum and wants to escape as a groan. “I never miss.” 


	49. Chapter 49

“Of course I futzin’ worry,” Clint yelled, his hands in the air. “Your life has been a futzin’ shit show! And I’m lookin’ to take on a lead role!”

“The Amazin’ Hawkeye,” Bucky said, amused. “Sounds like a hell of a show. Lifetime engagement, maybe,” but Clint was too worked up to pick up what he was throwing down.

“Sure, we’ve managed so far,” Clint’s pacing took him back and forth in front of the sofa, his hands wringing together now, like he’d picked something up from Bruce, “but what happens when I inevitably fuck up?” He stopped and faced Bucky then, his eyes pained, heartbroken-blue. “I can’t hurt you,” he said, and that was enough. Bucky reached out and took him by the wrist, tugging gently until Clint collapsed half on top of him, angular and awkward in his distress.

“Darlin’” Bucky said, a pair of fingers placed under Clint’s chin to tilt his head back, to meet his eyes, “I need you to listen carefully, okay?”

Clint nodded, and Bucky couldn’t help but kiss him quick.

“No matter what you do,” he said, “no matter how hard you fuck this up, you will *never* be the worst thing that happened to me.”

“Huh,” Clint said, thoughtful. “I mean, I guess that would be pretty -”

“Never,” Bucky said with conviction, and it was enough to make Clint relax.

 

*

 

Six months later - when Clint finally got a goddamned clue - the invitations read “Not The Worst Decision Bucky Barnes Has Ever Made.”


	50. Chapter 50

Clint doesn’t run the duelling club, ‘cos Clint’s students don’t win duels. 

Clint’s students duck and cover and seek out the nearest shelter. Clint’s students switchback when they run. Clint’s students know every possible spell to disarm or disable their opponents, and they work out every exit before they even enter a room. Clint’s students have perfect aim.

Clint, see, he lived through the war. Clint is old enough and dumb enough to think that duelling is a waste of fuckin’ time when weighed against surviving. 

So they don’t have much time for him, when it comes to the first post-war Triwizard Tournament. He doesn’t have to attend the meetings or learn about the tasks, doesn’t learn enough of the secrets - unlike Natasha - to have any secrets to keep. Mostly he chills out in the staff room and fletches his arrows and plans out lessons for the coming year. 

He keeps out of the Forbidden Forest ‘cos he figures something with centaurs; they’re scary enough without being generally fatal. There’s a range down by the lake where he shoots, and that’s far enough out in the open that he doesn’t have to deal with any of the preparations. 

Natasha does open her mouth a couple times in the staff room - looking conflicted, looking like she has a secret to tell. Clint tells her about the lesson he’s planned about the edges of Care of Magical Creatures instead; about magical races, and respect for different manifestations of intelligence, and historical exploitation. They end up talking late into the night, and Clint falls asleep on one of the sinfully comfortable couches there. 

So he’s entirely unprepared to wake up to see the long-limbed sprawl of Bucky Barnes in one of the armchairs opposite - of Bucky Barnes, supposed to be tending to goddamn dragons in goddamn  _Romania,_ Bucky Barnes the poorly thought out love of his poorly thought out goddamn life. 


	51. Chapter 51

Bucky cursed and tugged his hand out of his hair, a few stray strands caught between metal plates, but didn’t even flinch as gentle fingers strayed across the back of his neck. 

It was easy to recognise Clint’s hand, with the calluses he had; it was easy to recognise Clint’s hand, ‘cos no one else touched him so easy and so soft. 

“Every damn day,” Clint said, ‘cos he was developing a permanent pink mark around the skin of his wrist, from where he always kept a purple hair tie there for moments like these. “Every day I tell you to bring along a damn tie, and every day I find you bitching and blowing hair outta your face like some kinda L’Oreal.” 

Clint clambered up to sit on the back of the couch, then insinuated himself down so he was squished in between the cushions and Bucky, so Bucky was almost practically sitting in his lap. 

“You’re gonna bring up my memory issues now?” Bucky asked, mock-offended, shamelessly pushing up into the way Clint’s fingers were combing through his hair. 

“Memory issues my ass,” Clint said, tugging a little and making Bucky’s mouth go dry. “You just wanna make someone else do it for you.” 

“Not someone else,” Bucky said, as Clint tied his hair back into a bun that held it off the back of his neck, clearing the skin there that Bucky was hoping he’d someday realise was the perfect place for his mouth. “Just you.” 


	52. Chapter 52

It’s Natasha who tells him, her voice steady and her expression unreadable. 

“You probably don’t know him well enough to have questions, yet,” she says. “It always takes people a while.” 

“Questions about - ?” 

“Oh, the little things.” She shrugs one shoulder, everything about her voice and face studiedly casual, which is what lets him know that this is a big deal. “How he hurts himself so badly without dying; why he won’t bother with medical attention; how he always seems to heal a little too fast.” 

“He’s some kinda super?” Bucky asks, and there’s a flicker of amusement across her face, something teasing about her small smile. 

“Well I know  _you_  think so,” she says, and he glares at her, ‘cos he’d been sure he was keeping that one to himself. “He’s  _something_ ,” she says. “He’s maybe not something you’ll have come across before.” 

*

Clint is an incubus. 

Clint is an  _incubus_ , what the hell, something Bucky had been certain was made up by horny priests - sure, a sex demon, lies on top of you when you sleep, causes lust and sin and feeds off a person’s sexual energy. He’d taken his chances, jerked off all the same, described his dreams about fellas to Steve in lurid detail, ‘cos he had the face of an angel and turned into a blotchy mess when he blushed. 

But -  _Clint_ , though. Sure, he flipped every switch  _Bucky_ had, but it was almost in spite of any effort he made. He was dorky and clumsy and awkward with words, he was hot like the sun but mostly when he wasn’t concentrating, and  _definitely_  not when he tried. 

“Oh, he can be successful when he tries,” Natasha told him, frowning a little, “but he doesn’t like to influence people with it. Mostly he feeds passively from the people in the tower - their little sexual fantasies that distract them from their work, their supply closet hook-ups, their dreams.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he’d said, ‘cos it wasn’t exactly mission-critical, not unless it could somehow help them get Clint  _out_. 

“He’s been in an AIM base for days,” she’d told him, “and how much sex do you think those guys are having? When we find him -” he likes the way she’d said that, the sheer solid conviction in the  _when_  - “he will be starving. He will not ask for anything, but he will need it.” 

“So, what,” Bucky had asked, “Clint’s gonna ask me to whip it out and jerk it in the middle of a rescue?” 

“He won’t ask,” Natasha had said again. 

He gets it, now. Now he sees how gaunt Clint’s face is, the hunger in his eyes that’s unnatural and dangerous and almost indifferent, like the hunger of a whirlpool for ships. 

Bucky bends and twists the manacles away from Clint’s ankles, and stays on his knees there for a second, running his hands slowly up Clint’s thighs. 

“Bucky?” Clint asks, and he’s scared, and he’s hungry, and he’s become someone that Bucky would do just about anything to save. Bucky kneels up and captures his lips, pushes in close and lets Clint feed from his mouth.


	53. Chapter 53

“I think you’re enjoying this.”

Bucky gave Steve a scathing look and a metal finger, ‘cos his other arm was slung around Clint’s neck. 

“What the fuck is enjoyable about shattering practically every bone in my goddamn leg?” 

Clint looked down - could probably feel the vibration of Bucky’s voice against his chest, even if the same EMP that’d taken Bucky’s arm out had destroyed his aids. Apparently Hydra had better capacity for getting things back online than Clint’s Stark-designed electronic ears, and Bucky was gonna enjoy finding the perfect time to tell Tony that. Bucky tipped his head back and gave Clint a reassuring smile, and Clint’s returning grin was wide and bright and the kinda beautiful that daydreams are made of, the kind that shouldn’t be possible in real life. 

“See,” Steve said, jogging alongside them and smirking. “That.” 

“As soon as I can walk on my own two feet I’m gonna use one of them to kick your damned ass,” Bucky said. 

See, it wasn’t like he’d been embarrassed about the torch he was carrying for Clint. He’d just kinda been enjoying easing it in all slow. Taking the time to get to know the guy, learning what was under all the beautiful goddamn muscles, his skill with a bow. He’d been enjoying the way Clint’d started leaning in a little closer too, smiling a little too long, getting caught up in Bucky until he seemed kinda surprised when he had to acknowledge that the rest of the world still existed. 

And now Stevie knew about it, and Stevie had all the subtlety of his goddamned clanging shield. He’d make sly comments, and give them sideways grins, and then Tony would get in on the act, and Bucky tryin’ to get a date would turn into a three-ring circus, and Clint had already left behind that stage in his life. 

Why couldn’t Bucky have a best friend like Natasha? She’d noticed the way he felt about Clint weeks ago, and she’d only overtly threatened him with castration twice. Instead he had the big blond lummox currently making idiot suggestions for wooing Clint, like he’d ever have gotten a date without Bucky by his side. 

Fuck it. 

Bucky slid his fingers into Clint’s hair, easing up from the nape of his neck. He hadn’t expected the reaction - a falter in Clint’s stride, an involuntary flicker of eyelashes, a hard swallow - but he was keeping it in mind for later. 

“Hey,” Bucky said, making sure his hair was out of his face, making sure his lips were easily read. “Wanna fuck?” 

Clint crashed to a halt, almost dropped him into the sewer water lining the bottom of the tunnel.  

“Now?” he said, startled, and Stevie cracked up laughing while Bucky gave Clint his most unimpressed look. 

“Not now, idiot,” he said, and Clint’s look of shock faded down into surprise, edged with delight like silver on a cloud. 

“Yeah,” he said, no trace of hesitation, ducking down enough that he could just miss Bucky’s lips with a clumsy kiss. “Yes please.” 


	54. Chapter 54

He’s working on the part where he feels good enough for this. 

He brushes his teeth, looks the mirror in the eye and insists that he works hard, he’s on the side of good, he’s doing what he can to make up for what he’s done. He picks up the wet towels from the bathroom floor and hooks his boxers into the laundry basket, because he’s pretty sure that every little helps. 

He always leaves the last mug of coffee for someone else to take, and practices his aim daily so he can hero just as hard as he can. (It’s an uneasy fit, that word. He’s tryin’ to wear it in.) He - okay, he hasn’t quite mastered the urge to tease, but he’s better at making sure it’s taken the right way. 

See, he does love these people, and he does love this place. He loves this city, and he loves this planet, and he does what he can to protect them. 

Most of all, though, he loves the guy who’s lying on the bed when he comes out of the bathroom, leaning back against the headboard and frowning at his phone. He loves every goddamn thing about him from the soles of his feet to the tips of his hair. He loves the way he smiles, when he looks up. And he loves how he gets to talk to his reflection here, too. 

He gets to say  _you deserve this_ , and reassure them both with it. He gets to say  _I love you_ , and maybe even accept when it’s repeated back. 


	55. Chapter 55

The cart rattles over another bump, because Clint hasn’t had the time or opportunity to get out here and fix up the roads yet, and it’s not like he’s ever gonna know anyone rich enough to afford one of them motorcars. It’ll be a concern if his cart falls to pieces again, but it’ll be a concern he can likely suck off the wainwright in town for, if the guy doesn’t need eggs or corn or milk. 

(It’s amazing what getting near beaten to death by your daddy for being caught with a boy will do for your future employment opportunities.) 

The farm ain’t much, but Clint doesn’t need all that much when it comes to it. It’s enough to keep body and soul together, for now. He’ll be dead, most likely, if there’s ever too much of a drought - either that or selling his body to work on the railroads, or selling his soul to go off and fight in some war - but the farm’s lawfully his and it manages to feed him and his dog, and he feels like his childhood means he  _earned_  it.

Speaking of dogs, Lucky’s just about frothing on the porch as Clint pulls up, caught short at the end of his rope and barking fit to bust. It ain’t like him, not remotely, and Clint wonders if there’re foxes at the chickens again, or if rats have made a space for themselves under the porch. 

“Hey,” he says, “hey, Lucky, bed.” 

He’s not great at talking to people-shaped people. They ain’t patient, and he never learned to form his words so well. He’s louder than he means to be, and doesn’t always get the sounds in the words right, and he’s pretty sure there’s talk in town that he’s some kinda idiot - and he’s  _some_  kind, sure, but not the kind that they think. Lucky, though, he listens to Clint when he talks, and he settles down a little and goes to the pile of sacks and stuffin’ on the corner of the porch. He’s grumpy about it, and he keeps sending looks over to the large barn, so Clint stops inside long enough to grab his bow and a couple arrows, and makes his way over. 

He kicks the door to announce his presence. It’s loud enough even he can hear the rattling, because it’s always good to make yourself feel bigger than you are. He grabs the knotted rope that serves as a handle, braces himself, and hauls the door open. 

He ain’t expecting the long-haired grime-covered  _eejit_  who’s somehow managed to get himself caught in the bear trap Clint’d hauled out of the woods last week and hadn’t gotten around to dismantling yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for my own personal reference, Bucky in this is a shapeshifter


	56. Chapter 56

Clint’s taken to wearing a band-aid over the bridge of his nose even when it hasn’t been broken in a while, ‘cos his soul-print only looks like freckles when you’re far enough away; anyone who gets closer can’t help but give in to the urge to fuckin’ boop him. 

On the plus side he eliminates people quickly, ‘cos there’s no level of intimacy required for someone to touch his soul-print for the first time; a lot of people don’t touch new acquaintances for weeks ‘cos their print is somewhere private. Clint gets to progress to cuddles and draping and obnoxious pokes pretty much right away. 

Bucky’s different, when Steve drags him back to the tower. According to the many and varied stories Steve tells, Bucky never had a soul-print, and apparently took happy and thorough advantage of his ability to touch just about anyone he liked. There’s freedom in not having that weight of expectation attached to touch. 

But Bucky, post-Soldier, he’s curled in close and coiled up tight. It takes him weeks of trailing silently after Steve before he’ll even stay in a room with them, let alone anything close. 

Clint, naturally, ain’t gonna let that stand, ‘cos super soldiers give superb fuckin’ snuggles, and Bucky Barnes has the shoulder breadth of a cuddlin’ man. So he works on it. Eases in. Pats him on the hoodie when he hands over a mug of coffee, nudges their shoulders together when he manages to persuade him into computer games, relishing in the way the residual heat lingers on the sleeve of his shirt. 

First time he makes him laugh, Steve bursts into tears and Clint falls into sudden and unexpected love. 

They’re watching ET when it happens. It’s like some kinda cultural phenomenon, something inbuilt into human DNA - the ouch scene, you gotta touch someone. Gotta reach out and poke. Clint tries to get Bucky in the face, but Bucky closes his teeth - gently, so heartbreakingly fucking gently - around Clint’s finger. He reaches out, his throat working around an ‘ouch’ that’s poorly formed, and touches Clint on the bridge of his nose. 

Clint’s finger goes lax with the shock of it, curls down and touches the inside of Bucky’s mouth, just below his front teeth. 

(Bucky’d always  _thought_  he’d never had a soul-print, ‘cos what kinda idiot would touch him there?)


	57. Chapter 57

There’s chaos over by security, the wail of an alarm, loud enough that even Clint can hear with the world dialed down around him. He’d turn to look but he’s been numb for hours now, holding white-knuckled to the straps of his bag and counting carefully to remind himself to breathe. 

He watches the screens, and the numbers flicker and change, and it takes him a moment to process that that means he should be getting up now. It takes him a moment longer to find the energy to fight against the weight of the world and push to his feet. 

A hand touches his arm, slides down to take hold of his wrist. It’s cooler than skin would be. 

Bucky’s holding his card, the card he’s got, the one that says he sets off metal detectors, like it’s a shield. Two security guards are looking angry nearby, but Clint couldn’t give the slightest shit about them, because they’re not Bucky, because Bucky is here. 

And he’d just got the numb to fit right, too. 

“I got the message,” Clint says. He reaches up to flick his ears back on, and winces at the influx of sound - a lot of people are yelling at Bucky, seems like. “You didn’t have to come say goodbye.” 

It’s not like Clint’d had the time to unpack, or even to put down his bag - they might as well pretend this never happened at all. That Clint’d never scraped together every penny he’d inherited and scraped for and earned; that Bucky had never sent him a fresh-cut key as a kind of promise, just in case they were ever in the same place again. That Clint had never walked into his apartment and seen - 

“It was Stevie,” Bucky says, a little desperate, and he flicks his card at one of the security guards so he can grab Clint’s other wrist, keep him still, like Bucky isn’t the one that’s shaking. “It was Stevie, Clint, I swear to you, he crashes over all the time, you  _know_ that, I -” 

“Steve?” 

Clint knows Steve. Never seen the guy, but he’s a background character in every one of Bucky’s stories, enough so Clint almost feels like he knows him himself. But Steve is - in Bucky’s stories, he sounds like a younger brother, like a goof, nothing like the six foot blond adonis in boxers that Clint had found in Bucky’s apartment. 

“I thought he was in Malibu,” Clint says, slow, and Bucky nods, his hair falling in his eyes. 

“Malibu, right, but Stark had an emergency and flew them both up, and Steve said he was a workshop widow and came and drank all my beer and - and Clint, I never expected - how the hell are you  _here?”_

 _“_ I got tired of being where you weren’t,” Clint said. He thinks maybe his heart is beating again. He can feel it, where Bucky is holding his wrists. 


	58. Chapter 58

Clint is eating leftover pasta salad at 7:23am. Admittedly not one of his best choices, but it’s not that that stops him in his tracks. He trails up the stairs to his bedroom, Lucky at his heels - ‘cos there’s food, and Lucky has less than zero shame - and drops to sit sideways on the end of the bed, narrowly missing Bucky’s feet. 

“Were you gonna tell me we lived together now?” he asks, pointing at Bucky with his fork. 

Bucky stretches, languid and easy, and if Clint didn’t have his hands full of pasta salad this conversation would be over very quickly. 

“What gave you that idea?” he asks, his voice a little husky and a little raw in a way that goes straight to Clint’s dick. 

“There’s food in my fridge.” Sure, it took him halfway through his breakfast to work that out, but - “and I’m pretty sure there’s a dish rack by the sink, now.” 

“I figured I’d break it to you gently,” Bucky says, and he’s smirking, but there’s something a little watchful there, too. Like there’s any universe where Clint wouldn’t want him around. 

“I left toothmarks in my tongue on our first date,” Clint tells him, “trying not to ask you to stay forever.” He clears his throat, feeling kinda like an idiot, but Bucky’s cultivating a hell of a beautiful smile. 


	59. Chapter 59

There’s a slow-growing pile of purple petals on the kitchen counter, because it’s been fifteen days since Bucky left and Clint’s kinda forgotten that the kitchen exists. 

He’s kinda forgotten most things exist, besides ‘couch’ and ‘dog’ and ‘the British Baking Show’, ‘cos Dog Cops has too emphatic morals and he’s not ready and willing to learn. There’s a pile of boxes on the table that suggests that at some point pizza, too, existed, but he’s lost a lot of interest in that too. 

It’s not laziness precisely. It’s just that he’s less interested in any sorta nuance when Bucky’s not around. He gets along fine, he Avenges and works out and occasionally even socialises after, but he tires easy. He loses track of the conversation, and people don’t always remember to sign, or to make sure he’s looking before they ask him things. (Natasha does. Natasha  _always_  does, but she gets prickly-tired easy too.)

Speaking of - his phone pings, and he rustles for it, eventually finding it between the cushions of the couch and under Lucky’s furry butt. 

 _ETA 15_  it says, typically laconic, and he’s happy that she’s back but he’s happier she brought Bucky with her. Clint shoves himself off the couch, piling up pizza boxes in his arms and stacking ‘em by the door so he can take ‘em down at the same time he picks up the post for the first time in two weeks. He straightens up the couch and pelts upstairs to change the bedding and open the windows, hustles to dispose of the cardboard and quickly shuffle through the mail so he can dispose of most of that too, puts away the dishes that have been drying for fifteen days. 

Last thing, two minutes, he sweeps the purple petals into the trash and deposits the sad stems next to them, takes a look around and decides that the place looks better already, but nothing to how it’ll look when Bucky’s grinning tiredly in the doorway and noticing all the things that Clint did just for him. 


	60. Chapter 60

“All right, I’m comin’,” Bucky grouses, “hold your fuckin’ -” 

It takes a second, when the door swings open, for Clint to raise his head, but Bucky would recognise him a mile off, through a sniper scope, in the pouring rain. It ain’t exactly a struggle right here, even with the lights in the hallway flickering in time with the storm. 

“Why’re you here?” Bucky asks. 

See, the last time he saw him  _had_ been through a sniper scope, in the pouring rain. The last time Bucky had seen him, Clint had been his mission. Clint had been trying to steal from his employers, and Bucky’s employers didn’t take too kindly to that. Hell,  _Bucky_  didn’t take too kindly to that, ‘cos he’d been working hard at believing Clint when Clint had said he was done. 

Thunder cracks loudly outside the window, and Clint flinches. He’s dripping all over the carpet outside Bucky’s door. He’s a pathetic sight, even when he tries on a smile, and Bucky hates how easy he melts for it. 

“I couldn’t stay away,” Clint says, and Bucky hooks a hand around the back of the idiot’s neck and tugs him in. 


	61. Chapter 61

_Hungry Eyes_ is playing downstairs, playing almost loud enough to shake the whole place apart because the Starks are never, ever home; their breathing seems louder, though, loud through noses and intercut with the wet sounds of their mouths. Bucky kneels up astride him and pulls his shirt off, tugging his hair all out of place, and Clint runs a hand up his thigh to the warm skin of his side and feels - awe. More than anything, more even than the throb of his dick, he feels awe, like when he sees the trapeze artists fly. 

“You gonna join me?” Bucky asks, and it takes a second - and a faintly mocking raised eyebrow - for Clint to realise what he means and struggle his way out of his own shirt, getting it stuck behind his head and his back rather than sit up and risk dislodging Bucky’s weight against his thighs. 

Bucky grins - Bucky gives him a long, slow look up and down and  _grins_  - and then they’re kissing again, and Clint’s gonna dislocate something with how hard he’s stopping himself from rocking up against him. It’s probably rude, right? It’s probably 

He stutters on a breath and almost chokes when Bucky’s hand slides down and curls around him,  _right there_. 

“Jesus  _fuck_ ,” he manages, and it’s probably louder than he means it. He always has been, that’s for sure, and it’s always bugged the everlovin’ shit out of people, which is why he was so surprised when Bucky had sat at his lunch table, had made conversation, had made Clint just about fall in love with his grin. 

“You gonna do something with that, hotshot?” Bucky asks, and Clint - he wishes there was another word for what he does than ‘panics’, but any other word would be a big lie. 

“I have  _no clue_ ,” he says, and Bucky kinda blinks at him, startled. 

“What?” 

Clint slaps his hands over his face, hard enough to make his nose ache like anything, but hopefully not hard enough to make it bleed. Bucky picks gently at his pinkies, trying to peel his hands away, but it’s still muffled into his palms when Clint speaks. 

“I have no idea what I’m doing, here,” he says, and every internal organ curls into a miserable ball when Bucky lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a snort. 

“Clint,” he says, but Clint is fine here, he’s becoming one with the pillows, if he focuses hard enough he might even be able to sink through the floor. “Clint, sweetheart -” 

“Sweetheart?” It’s kinda startled out of him, and Bucky bends his finger back almost hard enough to hurt, moves him out from under his hand enough that he can see Bucky’s careful smile, so slow and kinda soft, so different from the ones he dares people with in the halls. 

“What, you haven’t figured out I’m sweet on you?” 


	62. Chapter 62

The fourth time he’d escaped, they didn’t bother hauling back to the room they’d held him in. The room with slightly too thin bars in the window, with rusted mattress springs, with a bucket with a pliable wire handle. The fourth time he escaped - like a moth against a lightbulb, ‘cos where the hell in all this desert was he even gonna go? - they threw him into a square-sided pit and probably hoped he’d die.

 

No one important would bring him food any more. The fascination with his arm had quickly worn off, and ever since he’d grabbed the bucket and hauled on the rope, lightning fast and stronger than they’d have thought of him, they flung food and bottled water in from a distance. (He was saving the bottle caps. He didn’t wanna risk his supply by using that advantage just yet.) The guy he’d hauled into the pit had looked up at him, wide-eyed, breathing fast, certain that he was gonna be killed; more than anything, it was just kinda tiring. He’d ended up giving the guy a boost out again.

 

He had bare feet - they no longer trusted him with his steel-toed boots, or his shoelaces, or the aglets at the end of ‘em - and sweatpants. His shirt he’d sacrificed to keep wrapped around his head, occasionally soaked down with water he’d saved enough to spare. He’d grown almost immune to the things that scuttled around down here with him, to the relentless sun, to the smell of his own shit. It was the boredom that was gonna kill him, he was pretty convinced.

 

He was singing the theme tune from Dog Cops when his arm started tingling, shoulder all the way down to his fingertips, like static electricity and anticipation. He stood up, rubbing at the soulmark that wound all over his skin, craning his head back to look at the silhouette that was staring down at him, arm outlined in silver.

 

“Hey,” said Clint, his voice hoarse and dry, his lips cracking as he forced a smile for the guy he’d only ever seen at a distance, the guy he felt drawn to down to his bones. “About time you showed up.”


	63. Chapter 63

Somehow Clint had managed to get paint up to his elbows, a long smear of it spread with scratching fingers from the bridge of his nose up into his hair. There were sheets spread over every possible surface - Bucky had spent too long putting the goddamn flatpack bullshit together to let them get messed up - and it only occured to him now that maybe they shoulda arranged some kind of toga arrangement for his idiot too. 

“Screw it,” he said, and hauled off his black shirt, balling it up and chucking it out through the half open door and into the hallway. It caught on the banister that ran the length and barely escaped falling down to the floor below, where he’d be lucky if the damned dog didn’t claim it for his bed. 

Clint paused, his roller static halfway up the wall, and then dropped it into the tray of lavender paint with a splash. 

“Different dresscode than I was expecting,” he said, mouth curling up and his eyes so warm as Bucky sauntered over to him. Bucky shrugged and didn’t stop until he was all but pressed up against Clint, Clint’s paint smeared forearms resting against his sides as he linked his hands behind Bucky’s back. 

“I like that shirt,” he said. “And how in hell am I supposed to resist doing this?” 

There were specific kisses for people who knew each other this well, who’d shared this many kisses and learned this much about how they ought to go. Bucky pushed his - barely flecked with paint, ‘cos he’s not a human disaster - hands into Clint’s hair, tacky and crisp and lavender in places, and resigned himself to the fuckin’ mess. 

Probably wise to do it before the kid got there, anyway. 


	64. Chapter 64

“The Black Purl One,” Clint said, almost spilling his beer as he curled around his giggles, apparently undone by Tony’s suggestion. “Oh man, I love it, knitting pirates, this is the best -” 

“The beads in his hair are for counting stitches,” Tony decided. “Sensible and aesthetically pleasing.” 

“I resent the implication that Captain Jack Sparrow’s ever been sensible in his life,” Clint said, like it was a personal affront; he did seem to have been identifying pretty hard with the guy through the two films they’d watched. 

“Knitting needle sword fights,” Rhodey said - he got quiet when he drank, occasionally coming out with nonsense proclomations like they were great wisdom; he pretty much sold it, too. 

Clint laughed hard enough to fall off the couch, making tiny stabbing motions accompanied by angry noises. 

“You’d have to aim carefully,” Natalia said thoughtfully. “They’d be flimsy against bone.” 

Steve rubbed a hand across his face and sent a despairing look across at Bucky, who smirked right back - he wasn’t the one who had to make sure that these idiots were prepared for a briefing with the head of SHIELD, first thing in the morning. 

Clint had just about managed to clamber back onto the couch, ungainly and sprawling and well inside of Bucky’s personal space, leaning in like he was gonna share a secret. He flicked the ends of Bucky’s hair with the hand still holding his beer bottle, catching strands between skin and glass. 

“You’d make a pretty pirate,” he said, oddly intent, his breath thick with the smell of beer. 

“I can knit, too,” Bucky said. 


	65. Chapter 65

Bucky remembered the Soldier. It was easier for everyone if he pretended he didn’t, if he acted like the nightmares were gone as soon as he awoke, if he acted like the Soldier was someone he knew about but didn’t know. 

It helped sometimes. Sometimes it helped to make comparisons, because even the worst days were never so bad as they’d been, and that was a reason to keep fighting, right there. Sometimes he used it like a stick to beat himself with - the Soldier had fought bleeding and broken and inches from death, and there was no way that Bucky Barnes would do less. 

Sometimes, though, Bucky Barnes wanted to take a break from it. Wanted to wear something soft, or eat something nutritionally void, or give up before he was at breaking point. Sometimes Bucky Barnes got really goddamn sick of having to keep blowing strands of hair away from his face, unwilling to move to shift them because it’d mean a moment’s wavering of concentration on his target. 

He sometimes wished he knew how to make things a little goddamn easier on himself, but that was definitely one of those things Hydra stole. 

“Hey, let me get that for you.” 

Hawkeye - Barton - who was also stuck on this goddamn rooftop with him. Who was equally as swift and deadly but maybe a little less concerned with obedient dedication when the only aim was to train. Bucky startled a little at the hands in his hair, brushing it back away from his face and tying it back into a bun without tugging too hard or coming close to moving his head. 

“Thanks,” Bucky said, shape of the word unfamiliar. 

“Oh, hey, lemme -”

A butterfly touch on his cheek, Barton’s finger callused and improbably soft, brushing away an eyelash that Bucky wouldn’t even have noticed for hours, that would’ve been a slow-growing torturous tickle that he would’ve stoically endured because it wouldn’t’ve occured to him to do anything else. 

There was a hint of a grin in Bucky’s periphery, an archer’s gloved hand in front of him, impeding nothing of his view. 

“Now blow,” Barton said. “Make a wish.” 


	66. Chapter 66

Bucky disappeared. 

The only one concerned at first was Steve; even Tasha agreed that the guy was probably just ducking out ahead of the clean-up that Steve always insisted on. When he didn’t show up at the quinjet there was a little more concern; Clint figured that the guy was an adult and that they should give him more than a couple hours before they went chasing after him. It wasn’t even as though they’d had any hints of Hydra recently. 

Steve had the look of a guy who’d be pacing all night; he also kinda looked like a guy who’d keep others up around him, so Clint made a snap decision to head back to his place in Bed-Stuy, even though tonight was one of Kate’s nights to have Lucky. 

The door opened easy enough, but something felt off as he stepped inside. Still in his Avengers gear, Clint quietly drew an arrow out of his quiver and strung it, bow held down at his side. He almost jumped out of his skin when there was a tiny peeping, high-pitched and unquestionably demanding. 

“What the hell,” he said, and Bucky stepped out of the shadows under the stairs, cradling a cardboard box - the threatening aura was disrupted entirely by the determined pair of kittens, a wisp of grey and a cloud of ginger and white, who kept trying to climb out of the box. 

Clint made a noise that he’d never admit to, not in a million years. 

“I didn’t.” Bucky gritted his teeth, then visibly forced himself to keep talking. “I didn’t want to leave them. But I wasn’t sure they’d let ‘em on the ‘jet.” 

“Natasha likes cats,” Clint said, and Bucky’s mouth quirked up at the corner, something that almost resembled a smile. 

“Yeah, well Hydra woulda -” he shuddered, almost too quick a movement to see, but there was a chorus of protest from the box. “I didn’t trust it.” 

“So you came here,” Clint said, almost afraid to extrapolate from that. 


	67. Chapter 67

Mostly Bucky’s fine with it. 

He’s compact. He’s perfectly honed. He’s crafted his body into an efficient killing machine, in far better shape than when Hydra had been left in charge of it, and the fact that he has to stretch to reach the top shelf at the store is mitigated by the fact that he can aim a kickstool from the end of an aisle with pinpoint precision. 

His height, in fact, is such a non-issue that it’s almost a surprise when asshole villains comment on it. It’s almost absentminded, when he beats them into the ground. 

Of course, then there’s Clint. 

Clint has all the gangles that Bucky was spared, in life. He’s three unnecessary inches over six feet tall, and he’s got the elongated limbs of an ent, and if he holds Bucky back while he snaffles all the goddamn coffee  _one more time_ … 

Starts out that Clint slaps a hand against his chest to hold him back. Turns out Bucky’s reach is enhanced enough when holding knives that Clint doesn’t try that again. The next time, he goes simple and childish - holds the coffee pot high enough that Bucky can’t reach it, only he hadn’t thought to grab a mug; they both stare up at it mournfully, and eventually agree to split the damned thing. The next time they’re both seated - Clint braces one of his heavy feet against Bucky’s stomach to keep him seated while he stretches the whole absurd length of him out to snag the coffee off the counter. 

Kinda makes it seem like it’s unthinking, when he pours a cup for Bucky too. Kinda manages to hide the little grin. 

Then one time, he pours a mug without Bucky asking. Leans over the back of the couch, stretching down so he can hand it over, his fingertips against burning ceramic so Bucky can grab for the handle - like the idiot’s forgotten that Bucky’s got a metal goddamned arm. 

“Thanks,” Bucky says, and Clint’s smile - like every other part of him - is far too fuckin’ big. 

It’s a wooing thing, seems like. ‘cos as soon as Bucky’s given in and slept with him, discovered he’s delightfully proportional and knows exactly what to do with the extra inches, Clint’s done bringing him coffee. Instead he drapes every last inch of him over and around Bucky every morning, whining and pathetic, and pressing soft and somehow demanding kisses against his skin. 

 

 


	68. Chapter 68

Clint took the bills out of his apron pocket and shoved them into Katie-Kate’s tip jar, tucked behind the counter and far more glittery purple than his. She was bright and a natural leader and actually going places - like New York, the sooner the better if you listened to her - and if that meant putting off buying a new bow for another few months that was a sacrifice he was willing to make. 

Mrs Wurtzer was taking her time over her eggs this morning, and the mechanics wouldn’t be in for another half hour or so, so Clint was a little startled when the bell over the door chimed, automatically looking over and then barely fighting through the urge to dive onto the floor behind the counter and hide away forever. He could feel the colour flooding his cheeks, ‘cos it was too early in the year for the perpetual farmer’s tan to hide his shame. 

The guys who came in must belong to the bikes outside; the first one in was short and swamped in a brown leather jacket, blond hair darkened some with sweat. Looked like it had to be a fight for him to control the bike outside - looked like he had enough fight left over to take on most of the world along with it. The guy who followed him had long dark hair and slate grey eyes - couldn’t see them from where Clint was standing, but he remembered how they looked, how they’d turned almost black when Clint leaned in close. Guy had shoulders that could make a man feel small when he crowded them up against a back-alley wall, even with the inches Clint’d had on him; he had a mouth that was honestly wasted any time it wasn’t curling into a flirtatious smile. 

“Hey,” Kate said, easy flirtation in her voice, with an edge of don’t-fuck-with-me that was what had kinda made Clint love her in the first place. “Welcome to Iggy’s. You guys passing through or staying in town?” 

“Passing through,” the blond said, decisive, like he was laying down the law; the other guy made a thoughtful sound low in his chest that made Clint bite his lip. 

“I dunno,” he said, his voice thoughtful, low and warm and familiar. “We could maybe be persuaded.”


	69. Chapter 69

“Look,” Bucky said, holding a finger up and stopping the guy before he even got his (cute) mouth open to ask for Bucky’s order. “Look, it’s been a right royal fuckin’ shitgasm of a day and I am just about ready to kill my idiot best friend if he takes me to eat at one more fuckin’ McDonalds because he believes in soulmates and true love and all that bullshit when I would honestly kill for some fuckin’ Chinese takeout or even a goddamn microwave burrito, at this point, so could you just not tell me to have a nice day or say it with a smile and just make with the fuckin’ Big Mac, already?” 

The guy behind the counter narrows his eyes. They’re the kind of blue that summer skies aspire to, and he’s got a hairnet barely taming the straw-blond bedhead under his cap. He’s got the kinda jawline that’ll catch you unawares, duck his head and smile and melt your heart into your stomach. 

He’s also, now Bucky’s looking, got closely worded text all over his left forearm, small enough that it’s hard to read but Bucky’s stomach sinks as he picks out a word or two, here and there. 

“Hey,” Bucky’s soulmate says, and this was  _not_ the impression Bucky ever intended to make, “wanna supersize that, asshole?” 


	70. Chapter 70

The ride on mower judders and shivers to a stop, and the black plastic of the seat is burning against his legs and honest he  _intended_ to grab a hat from the row of hooks by the door but he sits a little longer anyway, letting the smell of fresh-cut grass roll over him. In the distance, there’s a dark figure - legs braced apart and ready for anything, except apparently the weather, ‘cos it’s over thirty degrees and there’s still a sleeve covering up the metal. Clint raises a hand, and there’s a momentary flash as the figure waves back, so at least he’s relaxed enough to take off the gloves. 

It’s two-fold, this thing. It’s Clint retiring and staying on his farm and looking after the newly redeemed Bucky Barnes; it’s Bucky retiring and relaxing on Clint’s farm and making sure Clint doesn’t fall into any farm machinery. 

Honestly, Clint was initially kinda offended by this on two levels. He was offended that they think he’s gonna mangle himself, first and foremost, ‘cos farm equipment is expensive as hell so if he goes out he’s goin’ by fuckin’ fence post. Or maybe the log pile can fall on him. 

Second, he was offended ‘cos they sent Bucky Barnes, who is all messed up six ways to Sunday and would frankly probably watch, indifferent, while Clint got ground into archer soup. 

That’s what he’d thought, anyway, when they’d first outlined the plan. He hadn’t expected the shared breakfasts, and the way Bucky would muscle his way into scrubbing the dishes without them exchanging a word. He hadn’t expected that the roles would reverse a couple days later, or the beautiful goddamn things Bucky Barnes could do with an egg and some cheese. 

(He also hadn’t expected, hadn’t been remotely prepared for the way that Bucky Barnes ushers the chickens into the coop at the end of the day, softly calling them ‘dames’ and moving all gentle.) 

He hadn’t expected Bucky to be the one doing the looking after - that Bucky would stride over to the mower, call him a dumbass and throw a ballcap in his face - but that’s apparently what he gets, now. 

He’s never been so lucky. 

 

 


	71. Chapter 71

They’d made it as far as the bathroom just off the common area, and one of Bucky’s hands was slapped over his own mouth, the other bracing him upright on unyielding metal. Clint had him bent forward over the sinks, and his eyes over the white-knuckled hand were blown dark and pleading.

 

These were the moments that Clint fucking relished. These moments of vulnerability and desperation - something still held back but the better part of Bucky’s tightly leashed power placed firmly in his hands. In his hand - the other was busy, clasped just tight enough and stroking, Bucky pushing forward into his hand and then rocking back against him, the almost furtive movement of his hips something new and fucking devastating. Bucky Barnes, actively seeking his own pleasure, loosing his restraint enough to admit that he wanted -

 

Devastated was a word Clint’d usually use for - city blocks, maybe. Broken walls and shattered glass, vulnerable insides laid bare. He supposed that made sense that it was how Bucky made him feel.

 

Clint lifted his spare hand to Bucky’s face. Usually it’d be a clumsy grasp of his chin, a fumbling excuse to touch, a barely held back wish for Bucky’s mouth against his sublimated into control. This time, instead, Clint brushed aside Bucky’s hair, Bucky’s low groan muffled against his own concrete-gritted palm. Clint slowed the movement of his hips, ducked forward to touch his mouth, soft and hot, against Bucky’s neck.

 

Bucky made a noise, helpless, high and tight; Bucky stiffened and released in Clint’s hand.

 

 


	72. Chapter 72

Bucky kept getting glimpses, flashes whenever Clint talked or grinned, and it took a little time for him to work out what he was seeing. Sue him - the 21st century seemed to have aliens and cyborgs and robots around every corner, was it any wonder that the simplest explanation didn’t even occur to him for a while? 

So it wasn’t until Clint stuck his tongue out at Tony - some disagreement about pizza, most likely - that Bucky fully appreciated that Clint had a bar of metal stuck right through his tongue, and every part of him flinched away from the idea of it, ‘cos why the hell would someone  _voluntarily_  do something that was gonna carry that level of  _hurt_? 

Although. Although, if he was more honest with himself, he’d have to admit that it was every part of him but one, ‘cos his dick had had a reaction alright, but it was equal and opposite, and that was something new and exciting about himself to learn. He jerked off guiltily a couple times, thinking about how it would feel against him, tried to approximate the feeling with a lot of lube and a metal fingertip, got a lot of shameful boners when he caught a glimpse of silver between Clint’s teeth. 

It was on the radio that things came to a head, though. Every hair on Bucky’s body was standing up on end at the gentle rhythmic clicking that no one else even seemed to hear, Clint absently tapping his piercing against his teeth as he settled into position. 

“Goddammit, Clint,” he burst out, louder than was warranted, making Steve jump. “Can you stop with the clicking? I can think of a hundred better things you could do with your tongue.” And it - he would swear, he would  _swear_  that that had left his brain as a threat, travelled down to his tongue and somehow tripped him up until he was coming onto a teammate on an open goddamn channel, maybe two minutes prior to a full on fight. 

“Huh,” Clint said, “is that right?” and there was a distinct click, metal against enamel, and even from this distance Bucky could see his shit-eating grin. “Wait until you see what else I’ve got pierced,” he said. 

 

 


	73. Chapter 73

“Hey baby,” Clint says, low and beery and warm into Bucky’s ear, “you want another drink?”

“…what?” Steve is blinking at them from across the table, and Bucky can see the moment where it clicks for Clint, where the reality clicks through the drunken haze that’s had him singing anything with a hint of romance on the karaoke playlist, all direceted over their way. 

“I. Drinks!” Clint says, trying to look something approaching sober, using Bucky’s shoulder as a sobriety prop. “I was gonna - you want a drink, Steve? Er, sweetheart?” 

“Are you two -?” 

“No,” Clint says, quick and automatic, and Bucky folds his arms across his chest. 

“No?” 

Clint blinks at him, and the amount of beer in his system, that takes a little longer than it ought. 

“I don’t,” he says, and then makes a visual attempt to approach the problem from another angle. “Do you want -?” 

“I dunno,” Bucky says, just to be contrary, just to see Clint squirm. (Just a little ‘cos of the times Clint has stopped holding his hand where someone will see.) “Maybe I don’t. I’m pretty sure I never got a sweetheart.” 

“Shit,” Clint says, and grabs both of Bucky’s hands in his, his hands just enough bigger to kinda engulf Bucky’s hands, make him feel all safe and small. “Sweetheart, baby, darlin’, love, are you okay with people knowing about this?” 

“The hell would I ever be embarrassed about being with you?”


	74. Chapter 74

Clint is on a search for coffee, ‘cos it’s been a long day and sometimes the sleep just doesn’t come. He’s bopping down the hallway and humming the Dog Cops theme tune when he stops dead. 

Bucky Barnes is curled up just outside Steve’s door. He’s resting his forehead on his knees and his hands are curled into fists in his hair. 

Clint’s come across guys before who have run into the Winter Soldier. No one who’s been his target, ‘cos he’s not sure anyone save Steve has been there and lived, but guys who’ve been in his proximity, have watched him work. And there’s a part of him that resents that he wasn’t there in DC, that he didn’t get to see the things that they got to see, but there’s also a part of him that recognises what he saw in their eyes. 

Terror. 

Terror of Hydra, and of the Winter Soldier. 

So he figures he knows it when he sees it. 

It’d be an easy thing to wander past, maybe call Steve so he knows what’s up. No one has had much of a chance to talk to Bucky, and Clint only got back from Rwanda two days ago, so he’s had even less than most. What he means is that there’s no responsibility there, and it’d be an easy thing to write off as Somebody Else’s Problem. 

Only, he knows what it’s like to be scared of what you can be. 

Clint sets his shoulders against the wall and slides gently down it, settling next to Bucky but not close enough to touch. He takes in a deep breath, his finger ticking softly against the carpet in gentle thuds counting off the beats as he holds it and breathes out again. Takes a little while, but eventually Bucky’s breathing along with him. It’s a start, but it’s not gonna get him out of his head, so Clint starts talking, low and even, taking care to pick a topic that he doesn’t need anyone to weigh in on but that he can keep up for hours. 

“So Sergeant Whiskers is the main character of Dog Cops,” he says, “but I always figured the best story arc went to Detective Bingo. She’s a scrappy little Shi-Tzu with a dark past, and in season 2 there’s a bunch of flashback episodes that talk about how she ended up on the wrong side of the law. See -” 

He winds up talking ‘til his voice gives out. 

Turns out Bucky Barnes has grey eyes and the prettiest laugh Clint’s ever heard. 

 

 


	75. Chapter 75

Bucky sat on the side of his bed, fingers brushing back and forth across his lips. It’s not a conscious motion, more a reaction to the way they’re still kinda sensitive, and when he notices he’s doing it he folds his arms tight across his chest. 

He’s not sure how it’d happened, just that there’d been a jolt of movement in his peripheral vision, he’d turned and then Clint’s eyes had been way closer to his face than he was used to, his hand clamping on Bucky’s shoulder to hold himself up, his lips brushing Bucky’s. 

Bucky’d been startled, too taken aback to do anything about it, too shocked to even know what it was he wanted to do. The reaction - the oh, hell yes that seemed to start in his stomach and roll out all the way to his fingertips - came too late, and Clint had already pulled away and grinned, abashed. 

“Oops?” he’d said, like it’d all been some kinda mistake, and it was difficult to recover from that. Difficult to lean back in and kiss him like he meant it, ‘cos where the hell could you fit meaning into an ‘oops’? 

Bucky shoved himself to his feet. There was too much going through his mind to settle; he was gonna go to the gym, and if Clint was there all the better, ‘cos he figured they had unfinished business to work out. He strode through his apartment, yanked open the door, and immediately ducked out the way of Clint’s upraised fist. 

“Sorry,” Clint said instantly, “sorry, sorry, I just figured we -” 

The way lips move around a w, it’s practically an invitation. Bucky grabs Clint by the back of the neck and lays one on him, a clumsy movement that eases and spreads out and involves all of them pretty quick, Bucky’s hand in the small of Clint’s back, Clint’s fingers in his hair. Pretty hard to focus on that past the movement of their mouths, though, the heat of Clint’s tongue. 

When Bucky finally pulls away Clint’s kinda gaping, a bright flush of pink across his cheeks. He blinks twice, and then focuses back on Bucky’s mouth, which is curled into the most practiced of all of his grins. 

“Oops?” Bucky says.


	76. Chapter 76

Bucky rolled his eyes and walked out, but he stopped long enough to pour himself a coffee after so it wasn’t something Clint had to worry about. He gave it ten minutes - finished his own coffee and poured himself another - and then wandered down the hallway to the rooms they’d been sharing for a couple years, now. Bucky was, as expected, sitting on the sofa watching a documentary about… craft breweries, apparently. He was a big channel surfer when he was pissed. 

“Everything okay in here?” Clint said, leaning against the door frame with his feet crossed at the ankle, but only ‘cos he knew Natasha was nowhere nearby. She was a big proponent of always have a strong base, and tended to push him over whenever she sensed a moment of precarious balance. 

“Everything’s fine,” Bucky said. “Just couldn’t understand how Stevie deals with that guy.” 

‘That guy’ was Tony, this time, who’d had a minor meltdown over an article comparing him unfavourably with his father. He’d gotten drunk, trashed a couple of things he was working on, possibly invented a new way to break the laws of physics - depending on whether Bruce could read his writing in the morning - and had drunkenly piloted his suit over to Coney Island, where he wouldn’t come down from the Ferris Wheel. 

“I mean, that was kinda just - Thursday, though,” Clint said, and Bucky rolled his eyes again. 

“Exactly. Don’t you think he’s kinda overdramatic?” 

Clint shifted his weight uncomfortably, almost tipped himself off the doorframe but caught his balance just in time. 

“I think there’s a place for drama,” he said, and shrugged one shoulder when Bucky shot him a disbelieving look. “I used to be in the circus,” he said, “I’m not gonna disagree with showmanship.”

*

Bucky decided to kinda drop the conversation after that, and it got brushed away with all the other detritus of their daily lives. He continued to be annoyed by Tony but chose not to make a big deal of it, more preoccupied with how odd Clint’d been acting, kinda squirrely and secretive, swiftly changing the subject of phone conversations as soon as Bucky walked into a room. 

“You cheating on me?” he asked one day, when Clint hung up his phone so violently that he fumbled it over the back of the couch. 

“Not in a million years,” Clint said, “I love you and am scared of you in just about equal measure.”

“Good,” Bucky said, and dropped a kiss on Clint’s temple and went to fetch him a cup of coffee. “Keep it that way.” 

After that he just figured what Clint got up to was Clint’s business, and carried on with his day. 

Sorta regretted that decision when he walked out of the base one day to find that there was some kinda petting zoo in the parking lot, a troupe of acrobats doing something seriously precarious by the running track, and what looked like a full-scale circus set up in front of the treeline. 

“What,” he said, “the actual hell.” 

“Drama,” Clint said by his ear. The guy was wearing something absurd and purple and  _covered_  in glitter, his hair teased up into spikes and stage makeup making him look like something fantastical and - yeah, beautiful with it, enough to make Bucky’s stomach get all tangled up with itself. 

“What’re you doing?” Bucky asked, although he couldn’t help the smile that snuck onto his face, couldn’t help leaning back a little into Clint’s strength. 

“I figured you oughta know what you were marrying into,” Clint said, his voice lilting up enough to make it into a question, and Bucky covered his face with his hands when Kate fired a flaming arrow to set off flares that spelled out ‘WILL YOU?’, and he laughed and laughed. 


	77. Chapter 77

Clint almost breaks his tooth on a silvery disc, and the entire room of aliens erupts into hollering, which is terrifying considering the number of mouths they each have. It’s a tradition, the ambassador assures them, one of long standing, and it means that Clint gets to be - well it seems to equate to King for the day. They offer him the choicest of the rest of the dishes, someone unlaces his boots and starts massaging his feet, and there’s a whole bunch of miscommunication that ends with Clint  _very politely_  sending away the dancing girls. And the dancing boys. And the dancing - tentacled things. 

Overall, though, he’s enjoying the hell out of the whole thing, so it makes sense that just as soon as the meal is done he’s led to a sumptuous chamber where he is tenderly chained to an oversized bed and informed - from what he can make out - that he’s won the lottery and is therefore going to be sacrificed to the huge bear-shark creature that features heavily in all of their art. 

“It is a very great honour,” the ambassador tells him, its wrinkled foreheads kinda undermining the attempted smiles. “Usually it would be one of our own people, of course, but the fact that it is one of the Visitors will bless the relationship between our peoples.” 

“And what’re the advantages of a blessed relationship?” Clint asks sarcastically. 

The ambassador shrugs at least three of its shoulders. “Well firstly we will not kill you all, which was the original plan.” 

They go away after that. They seem less enthusiastic about explaining the situation after he starts throwing things. 

Clint’s out of the cuffs and halfway up a grappling line made of silken bedsheets - which are, for the record, a pain in the ass to climb - when the door bursts open and Bucky storms in, covered in green ichor and possibly electrical burns. 

“You here to rescue me?” Clint asks, using the bedsheets like a giant slip’n’slide and coasting over the marble floor to Bucky’s feet. He could kiss ‘em, he’s so glad to see the guy, but it’d probably give away the whole crush thing and he’s been hiding that so  _well_. 

“I’m here to point you to the exit,” Bucky says, grabbing his hand and hauling him to his feet. “No way you need rescuing, but your sense of direction’s for shit.” 


	78. Chapter 78

“Nat? Bobbi? C’mon, Jess?” 

Bucky looked up, miserable and dripping hopelessly, to see Clint Barton, Varsity Jacket in Human Form, staring forlornly after the three cheerleaders he had a) somehow managed to date, last year, and b) had somehow  _remained friends with after_. It was possibly the most aggravating thing about Clint, the fact that he was athletic and clever  _and_  a decent guy. 

“Do it for the ‘gram!” Clint yelled, but not one of the girls looked back. 

Bucky pushed his hair back away from his face, cold water sluicing down the back of his neck, and hunched his shoulders, his leather jacket doing a hell of a lot more than Clint’s jacket would to keep away the cold. 

“Hey, Barnes!” Clint said, and started jogging over. Bucky looked around frantically, but there was nothing convenient to hide behind, and Steve was in detention again - hence Bucky freezing his ass off in the rain, waiting for the punk to drive him home. 

“What?” He asked with a scowl, ‘cos that was his default expression whenever anyone made him feel things. 

“Will you make out with me for $20?” 

“What.” This one was flatter, angrier, scowlier. Clint seemed undeterred. 

“Actually $18,” he said, exposing the contents of his wallet to the elements, “and an expired peppermint flavoured condom, and we’re not gonna examine what that says about my dating life.” 

“What the hell.” 

“Look, I’m in a bind, here,” Clint said, water dripping off his eyelashes, sliding along his perfect cheekbones, shimmering on his lips. Bucky was fairly certain there was a specific deity dedicated to shitting all over his life, at this point, and when he found them he wasn’t sure whether to destroy them or worship them forever. 

“You need someone to kiss you,” he said flatly. 

“I need to finish my photography project recreating famous romantic movie kisses,” Clint responded, his cheeks a little flushed, “which, for the record, was a hell of a lot more fun when I was dating someone.” 

“And you can’t find anyone else?” 

“You just watched me strike out with basically my entire friendship group,” Clint said, and then he gave Bucky a weirdly intense look, examining every feature, resting on his mouth like a touch. “Plus you’re prettier than almost every girl in this school.” 

Bucky had no idea how to respond to that, but he could feel the colour swamping his cheeks, and he had the horrible suspicion that he was gonna end up making a fool out of himself over a pretty boy with a cash flow problem and a dumb purple jacket. 


	79. Chapter 79

Banner’s place has two pool tables out back by the restrooms, past all the chair groupings and tables; he recognises that pool is a serious game, and there’s just one huge battered leather armchair in case a referee is needed. 

Clint spends all his breaks winning tips off of customers - mostly new in town, ‘cos no one who lives nearby would bother taking him on. Small town as it is, Banner can’t afford to pay him as much as he needs; keeping him and Barney in beer is an expensive thing, and then there’s all the lumber Clint needs for the alterations he’s making for Barney’s wheelchair. So he hustles a little at the table, and he just about manages the mortgage payments, and he only gets his ass beat on occasion.

There’s a silent circle of customers, tonight, just out of cue reach, ‘cos although he makes a show of it there’s honestly no one that ever comes close to Clint, at least not until tonight. He chalks the end of his cue, slow and meditative, and does his goddamn utmost not to get distracted by the ass of the guy laying on the table, lining up his shot. 

“C’mon, Buck,” the little blond who came in with him says, and the guy sends the blond a sidelong smile and taps the black into the pocket, bouncing off three goddamn cushions on the way. 

It’s just about the prettiest thing Clint’s ever seen, and he pants out as much ten minutes later, pressed up against the rough grafittied brick in the alley behind the bar. Buck smiles against his neck, the slight acidic sharpness of teeth that somehow ratchets up the tension, that turns his knees weak. 

It’s the best - without question the best - that Clint’s ever had, but a guy’s gotta eat, which means a guy’s gotta steal an out-of-towner’s wallet while he’s conveniently down on his knees. 


	80. Chapter 80

“I’m sorry?” 

Bucky blinks and looks back at the reporter that’s trying to interview him, attempts to smooth out his frown when he sees the way she flinches a little bit back. 

“Uh,” he says. “Sure, it’s a great honour that they’re throwin’ this party for us. We’re really glad all the various assh- uh. Associations of - uh, criminals, could hold off long enough for us to tongue. I mean come.” 

“Right.” She smiles, if a little lopsided. “Thank you for speaking with me.” She heads off in the direction of Stevie, which is a good move, since the guy actually gives a shit about this whole public relations thing. Bucky, he heads over to where Clint is standing by a popsicle stand, eases in close enough that a low growl can be heard, not so close that anyone will look at them sideways. 

“Are you tryin’ to kill me?” 

Clint grins, the purple popsicle in his hand failing miserably at standing up to the heat. 

“No idea what you mean,” Clint says, and then sticks up his tongue and licks up the drip of sticky purple tracing its way down his forearm. 

Bucky barely bites back a whimper. 


	81. Chapter 81

Clint picked his way through the workshop, dustsheet-draped machinery looming out of the half-darkness, wires looping down from the ceiling like the cobwebs the still-sterile environment would never admit. 

Steve had ordered him to stop coming in here repeatedly, but he hadn’t found Clint’s current entrance just yet, and what the guy didn’t know probably wouldn’t do all that much to hurt him, not any more than the lot of them had already been hurt. 

Plus he was too busy dealing with Tony, talking him down from his self-destructive mania, to find time to give much of a shit about what Clint did. 

If Natasha were here, it’d be a different story, but Natasha had been gone on a supply run for almost a week. Clint wasn’t thinking about the fact that she’d only meant to be gone a couple days. Clint wasn’t thinking about what he was gonna do if she didn’t come back. 

The back corner of the workshop was almost entirely lost in shadows, the gentle pulsing green light the only illumination. That was another thing Clint wasn’t thinking about - what Bruce was gonna do when he found out that something in here still worked. 

“Hey, Bucky,” he said, “time to wake up,” and watched with an awe that was familiar but would never be pedestrian as the bunch of wires and metal and plastic and glass accreted, and shifted, and parted to reveal Bucky’s perfect goddamn face.


	82. Chapter 82

Clint woke up that morning to no Bucky and no guitar, and honestly he’d rather the guy would’ve stolen his phone - it probably had a higher resale value, and it’d feel a little less personal. 

He stripped his bed and ran the sheets through the washer, then pinned them out to flap in the gentle breeze of a beautiful day - a little brisk, but warm for the fall. He stretched out sore muscles - it’d been a while since he’d had that kind of a workout - and reflected idly that at least Bucky hadn’t know about his damned bow. He shot and shot and shot until his fingers were sore, and then he shot a little more, ‘cos his guitar was gone and with it a decent portion of his income. Meant he didn’t have to save his fingertips; meant he would likely be giving shooting lessons to asshole hunters with pretensions to make up what he needed for his daily bread. 

Only found himself distracted a couple times, thinking of the way Bucky had looked holding a knife on him, desperate and fearful; thinking of the way Bucky had softened through the evening, the way he’d eased into a smile. Clint’d likely been an idiot to trust him enough to fall asleep next to him, but he’d always been some kinda sucker for a gentle kiss. 

Mostly he got through the day by working hard enough not to have any space for thinking, and his eyes were sliding closed in front of the TV when he heard Garrett McGintley’s truck chugging up his driveway, the whining clutch screeching out a greeting. He pushed up to his feet and walked out onto the porch, only to see a scruffy figure swinging out of the truck, Clint’s guitar case slung across his back. 

“Caught him out on the main road,” Garrett called, “guy said he was yours.” 

Clint lifted a hand in acknowledgement, watching the way Bucky hunched his shoulders and ducked his head. 

“Well,” Clint said, half under his breath, “I sure hope so,” and went to claim his guitar and an explanation, and half hoping for something more. 

 

 


	83. Chapter 83

Clint’s soulmark is broken, flickers in and out of existence like a faulty neon light. None of the books in the library have anything to say about anything like that, and his research is limited to the times when it’s scrawled in black on his forearm, ‘cos the soulmark stuff is all in with the sex ed stuff, and he lives in the kind of backwards state that won’t allow you to learn about the one without the other. 

It’s fine when he’s a kid. Well - it’s not fine, it’s the source of at least half the fights he has, ‘cos soulmarks manifest when one of the pair is 18 and Clint’s has been flickering in and out since birth. He’s a little weirded out that his soulmate is that much older than him, and the kids he goes to school with scent blood in the water and circle up. 

Older he gets, the more it cycles around from annoyance and confusion and frustration right around into lonely. Into brushing his thumb across the skin of his forearm and wishing like hell it’d appear. He takes to wearing his bracers more often, ‘cos that way it doesn’t get to sting. 

It’s an advantage when he gets recruited by SHIELD, though, in one of the periods that his mark is broken, turned off, flickered out. They prefer people without marks, without attachments, without particular reason to live. 

Someone gets an electrician in to replace the tubes when Clint’s in Romania, his soulmark sitting strong and black on his forearm for anywhere up to a week before he notices it, before he’s rescued - extracted - and finally released. He strokes curious fingers over the segmented star, thoughtful, and follows the pull of it back to New York, up an elevator, into a living room where there’s a hobo on one of the couches, looking a little like he wants to snap and kill ‘em all. 

Makes sense his soulmate is a little broken too. 


	84. Chapter 84

“It’s okay if you’re scared, Buck,” Steve said, and that - the sympathy in his voice - that was the final straw. 

“I ain’t scared,” he sneered, storming past Stark, looking back to see the smarmy asshole holding an arm out for Steve like he hadn’t just spend a good quarter hour goading them in in the first place. 

Bucky wasn’t  _scared_ , Jesus, but it’d only be a little less bad to admit that he felt bad for the people put on show like this. Didn’t like gawping at a short guy, or a fat guy, or a lady with too much hair. Stark’s argument had been that they were paid for it, that they knew what they were in for, but even in the poster Bucky was pretty sure he could see sadness in their eyes. 

The first room was cool, at least. A two-faced kitten eating out of a saucer and playing with a ball, a ‘mermaid’ skeleton that was blatantly stitched together, a ‘robot’ that both Tony and Bucky exclaimed over and tried like hell to work out. But then they were trailing through after a hungry crowd, walking past little booths that the people sat stoically in, pretending like they couldn’t hear. 

Bucky mostly just kept his head down, walked as fast as the crowd would let him, listened to Stark sweet-talk Stevie in case the guy took a step too far. Then the last booth on the left he caught a shift of something in the darkness, pulling his attention like he was magnetised, stepping off the rope-lined walkway. 

“Buck -” Stevie said, but Bucky barely heard him, caught by the boy who sat in the booth, glaring out at him like he had a grudge against the whole damned world. He was straw-blond and blue eyed, had muscular arms crossed across his chest and a mulish set to his jaw. He was prettier’n a picture, distractingly so, and Bucky didn’t even notice the huge brown wings in the shadows behind him until they flared a little as the guy caught his eye. 


	85. Chapter 85

“Hey, asshole.” 

Bucky’s eyebrows twitch, settle into a frown; he can feel them moving but doesn’t seem to have any control over them, any more than he has control over his eyes which refuse to open. 

“ _Asshole_.” 

A callused palm slaps none-too-lightly against his cheek, and Bucky sucks in a breath and then chokes it straight back out again, his lungs aching with the effort. He rolls onto his side and spews brackish water, a hand rubbing up and down his spine, and by the time he rolls onto his back again he’s just about managed to get his eyelids unglued. 

Clint is leaning over him, weight on his elbows, which means the weight on Bucky’s legs must be his tail. Bucky squints up at Clint, whose head is haloed by the sun, and lifts a hand to the very specific pounding at the side of his head. His fingers come away red, which explains the pain, the dizziness, the conviction that he’s gonna throw up. 

“Don’t do that,” Clint says, and there’s something in his voice that’s as unsteady as the deck of the skiff Bucky’d rowed out into the towering waves last night, convinced that something’d happened to Clint. 

“Got you back, though,” Bucky croaks, and Clint bares his sharp teeth at him, furious and beautiful and alien, skin like sandpaper against Bucky’s palm. 


	86. Chapter 86

“I know who you are,” Bucky said, speaking up after long silence punctuated with eye rolls at the pirate’s monologuing. “Your bullshit reveals you. You’re the Dread Pirate Nomad, admit it.” 

“With pride!” The man in the mask spread his hands, the deep collar of his flouncy shirt open almost to his navel. “What can I do for you?” 

“Hah,” Sam said, from his perch in the precarious crow’s nest, where he was trying to fasten the brightly striped flag. “Pride.” 

“You can die,” Bucky persisted, “cut into a thousand pieces.” There’s a whole bunch more he’s supposed to say at the point, but honestly the script had ended up under Clint’s ass last night, and Clint’s ass had ended up under Bucky, so instead he just goes straight to the good bit and shoves the Dread Pirate off the float. 

“To… the… end… of… the… line…” Nomad called plaintively, which was supposed to be Bucky’s cue for - something, only Clint had just vaulted onto the float and his grin had made Bucky forget more important things. 

“I’m just sayin’,” Clint was telling Bruce ‘the Hulk’ Banner, a last minute addition to the cast, who was picking at the flouncy shirt and striped trousers they’d put him in and looking steadily more pissed, “I know he’s the hero and all, but if they’d let me use my bow -” 

He looked up, and caught Bucky’s eye, and smiled slow and easy and prettier than the sea after a storm. 

“Did you just push your ex off a truck?” Clint asked. 

Bucky shrugged, tried for a charming grin. 

“Okay,” Clint said, thoughtful. “Guess we’re never breaking up, then.” 

Bucky was pretty sure he was fine with that. 


	87. Chapter 87

Clint and Lucky’re both crowded at the door when he unlocks it, and Clint might just as well be drooling and wagging his tail. It’s been a long goddamn mission - a long, dark, painful mission, a mission that he’s spent the last day showering off because he refuses to tread it in on his boots. And when he crosses his threshhold, and before even then, he has a pair of grinning faces that he loves without reservation greeting him, pushing up against him, herding him over to the couch. 

“You don’t gotta -” Bucky says, but Clint has already dropped to his knees and hip-checked the coffee table out of the way, setting to unlacing with - goddamnit, splinted fingers, and there will be  _words_  about whatever caused that. The shove almost sends the pizza - still steaming - to the floor, and definitely slops a little of the soda out of their mismatched beakers, Bucky’s blazoned with Steve’s bright shield and Clint’s decorated with some kinda electric yellow mouse. 

It’s exactly what Bucky needs. He knows - he’s been doing this long enough to know - that there’s a bath already run, too, that’s lobster hot right now but will be just right at the end of his meal. There’ll be fresh sheets on the bed, and the windows will be cracked to get the sound-and-smell-scape right, remind him where he is without him even asking. 

Mostly, there’ll be Clint, who can’t remember anniversaries to save his life, who has been late to every date Bucky’s ever tried to have, who has somehow accidentally bought him the same goddamned birthday card - last minute, from the bodega on the corner - three years in a row. Clint, who shows Bucky in a million different ways exactly how much he’s loved. 

He’s just glad none of Clint’s exes ever quite knew the right way to look. 

 

 


	88. Chapter 88

There was a sad pile of Clint in the corner behind the counter, and he was lucky that Nat wasn’t in today. Sam’d allow it - since Clint’d clocked off and was no longer being paid to do shit - and would (mostly) step over him without attempting to inflict injury; if Nat was here Clint’d already be bleeding.

Clint was a Professional, and even if being a Coffee Wench (official badge title, thanks Nat) involved a little less energy and risk than his previous job in the circus he was still proud enough to Do It Right. After he clocked off, though, there was nothing to stop him slumping in the corner with the balled up napkins and the foil off the milk.

“Steve,” Sam said, somewhere overhead, “Steve, I swear to god if you don’t get your boy to call mine -” 

Clint made a desperate noise of negation and lunged for Sam’s legs, attempting to knock him off balance but managing instead to smack his eyebrow against the handle of the milk fridge. Sam looked down, rolled his eyes, and passed over a wad of napkins, like usual.

“Your boy,” Steve said, with a little acid in his tone, “didn’t leave his phone number, so -”

“What the hell,” Clint said, shooting to his feet, staggering a little ‘cos the wad of napkins wasn’t doing nearly enough and he might actually need to get stitched up again, but that paled into insignificance against - “I left my number! I had to go early -” 

“Ran away,” Steve put in, unimpressed. 

“Through the fire escape ‘cos I couldn’t work out the door, but I left my number on a paper bag with a muffin outside his bedroom window!” 

“Outside his bedroom window,” Steve said, and Sam clapped a hand over his eyes. “Outside his bedroom window,” Steve confirmed, “in a paper bag with food, on a fire escape with pigeons that’d kill a man for a bagel -” 

“I - may have not planned that well,” Clint said. He wiped away the dribbles of blood that were making his cheek itch. “Sam, give the guy my number for Bucky, would you? I’m gonna -” he slid down behind the counter to the floor, which was easier to balance on, the closer you got. 

“Is he -?” Steve asked, sounding worried, and Clint raised a bloodstained thumb. Sam’d grab the first aid kit - weirdly well equipped for a coffee shop - and sort him out, just as soon as he’d got his flirt on with Steve. It was understandable, the guy was impossibly pretty, but since the first time they’d come in Clint’d barely been able to see him for looking at his best friend. 

“He’s okay,” Sam said, matter-of-fact. “If he was gonna die of idiot he’d’ve done it by now.” 

Clint’s phone buzzed at his hip, and he just about managed to read it if he squinted. 

_The fuck are you bleeding,_  it said, and he couldn’t help grinning as he pictured the scowl on Bucky’s face. 

 

 


	89. Chapter 89

Clint listlessly ran a cloth across the counter, smearing the dregs of beer and sticky cocktails across the surface and making the tickets under the clear resin a little harder to read. The walls were a chaos of bright circus posters, and the marquee outside was striped like a big top, and some days Clint was honestly convinced that Barney had the worst ideas ever, and Clint was an idiot for ever listening to him. 

(Other days he thought he shoulda agreed to the clown urinals - ‘like the stall,’ Barney’d slurred at him, ‘with the water guns’ - but that was mostly only when Barney’d got him drunk.) 

The door opened - Clint’d disabled the steam organ music it’d used to play after day two - and a crowd of guys came inside, looking around in something that coulda been wonder, coulda been horror, it was a little hard to tell. Mostly he got that look after the corridor of funhouse mirrors that led to the bathrooms. 

There was a short guy with a beard and an expensive watch - Clint knew the trick to the catch - and a taller guy with a beard and a gap-toothed grin; two blonds who were both built like brick walls, and a guy with long hair and responsibility for the fact that Clint honestly couldn’t’ve picked the other guys out of a line-up. He looked like he could fuck you up without trying, and his scowl said he’d do it for a dime; Clint had a cash register full of the things and’d go for it just for the shared body space. 

“Hey,” he said, and had to clear his throat and take a second, ‘cos the long-haired guy’s murder eyes were like a punch in the stomach in all the best ways. “What can I get you guys?” 


	90. Chapter 90

“How in the hell did you sprain your ankle?” Steve asked, spreading his hands. “It was the middle of the night!” 

Bucky scowled at the floor and opened his mouth to answer - nightmares was good, nightmares was always the standby - when Clint opened his big dumb mouth. 

“He fell off a box,” the idiot said, and Bucky clapped his hands over his face like that’d do much to help the situation - it was always his damned ears that gave away his blushing, and Stevie knew it. 

“A b- why were you standin’ on a box, Buck? If you gotta reach things, me or Clint can get ‘em for you - hell, Clint was  _with_ you.” 

Clint choked on somethin’ that sounded a hell of a lot like a laugh. “ _Yeah_  I was,” he said, tone laden with innuendo, and Bucky was glad he didn’t have to look at Steve’s face. 

“Yeah, well,” Bucky said, helpless, ‘cos Steve was gonna find out sooner or later anyway. “Clint  _reachin’_ things was kinda the point.” 


	91. Chapter 91

Bucky never had any idea what the hell circumstances could lead to someone saying his words.  _Are you the devil?_  He had his moments, sure - most of ‘em down to Steve goddamn Rogers - but mostly he figured he was on the side of right. He made a point of dressing in red on Hallowe’en, hoped for the best.

Zola? Zola traced a pale finger across his words and smiled. 

Hydra dressed him in black, covered his face, made him a weapon, and waited with hungry eyes for the day his words faded to nothing. Who could survive speaking with the Soldier? 

(The Soldier thought nothing at all.)

By the time Steve found him again - by the time there was enough of Bucky for Steve to find - he’d given up on hearing them. Almost didn’t recognise them when they were said. 

“It’s gonna be fine, they’re gonna love you, Buck,” Steve’d told him, smiling carefully and giving him a bracing pat on the shoulder. Bucky figured anything was manageable after what he’d been through - and given enough coffee - and he was just pouring the last of the coffee pot into a mug when the first of the Avengers appeared. He was a tall guy, well-muscled, blond, shuffling his feet and scratching his ass. He was prettier than that description really allowed for, and Bucky looked him up and down for the sheer pleasure of it while the guy was unaware. His eyes only looked about halfway open, and when he saw the last drips of coffee pouring into Bucky’s mug he clutched his heart like he’d suffered the worst sort of betrayal, opened his mouth. 


	92. Chapter 92

The ever expanding roster of Avengers has a whole bunch of benefits, and now Stark’s back on board the lack of snacks is no longer one of the drawbacks. The conference room is packed to the rafters, though, and when Bucky shows up - five minutes late, ‘cos Clint’ll drink anything but  _he’s_  not gonna drink Starbucks - there aren’t any chairs. 

A couple weeks ago he’d’ve leaned against the wall with a scowl; he’d’ve heaved Stevie outta his chair up to the day before. But Bucky’s woken up this morning well-rested, curled into Clint, and even when confessions come in the middle of the night there’s a weight to them, when you can trust down to the soul of you that they’re meant. 

So Bucky decides -  _fuck it_. He sets one coffee on the table in front of Clint, and pulls the chair back enough that he can settle on his lap and cradle the other coffee close to his chest, warmed from both sides. 

“Seriously?” Tony says, “We’ve gotta watch this?” 

Bucky bristles, scowling at Tony even as he settles back against Clint, tilting his head subtly to the side as Clint grins into the sensitive skin just at the crook of his neck. 


	93. Chapter 93

Mostly, his experience of Hawkeye is news footage from a distance, a dot on a rooftop showering arrows on the Doom of the Day. Sure, there have been glimpses - loving lingering shots of his biceps, catching Bucky’s eye on the screen in the corner of the bar - but nothing you might call comprehensive. So when, somehow, Bucky’s Brooklyn hole in the wall bar is home to the Avengers for an evening, he’s kinda taken aback by the reality of him. 

‘cos holy fuck, Clint Barton is  _tall._

It’s natural to fantasise about Tony Stark, who could sweep you off your feet and into a ferrari, or Sam Wilson, who has been deemed safe by reporters the world over and regularly makes hearts melt with his beautiful smile. Captain America too, apparently, although the punk lives in Bucky’s building and doesn’t seem to know anything about equitable distribution of the dryers in the basement. Asshole always comes over all ‘aw shucks’ and ‘save the environment’ and ‘your local community’ and then gets called away to an Avengers emergency when he is apparently individually drying his goddamn socks. 

Hawkeye has his own fanbase, sure, but it seems mostly to be nerdy elf roleplayers and tiny kids who like purple. You’ve got to go a long way to find any decent merchandise, is what Bucky’s saying, and yeah - he’s been looking. So the  _tall_  thing is just - it’s fuckin’ unfair, frankly. Bucky wants to climb him like a damn tree. 

He folds his face into a frown and skitters back a couple steps when Hawkeye ducks in to take a couple of beers out of his hands. 

“I can manage,” he says, and Hawkeye - they never seem to bother naming him on the news footage, and Bucky’s heard dark rumours that it’s ‘cos he’s a bona fide  _spy -_ ducks his head and grins, and that’s a real Midwestern ‘aw shucks’ right there, Steve Rogers pales in comparison. 

“Sure you can,” he says. “I’da spilled the lot of them by now.” He grins, right into Bucky’s face, and he’s gotta duck down a little to do it, and Bucky’s stomach is doing all sorts of inadvisable acrobatics right now. “Mostly I just wanted an excuse to say hey,” Hawkeye tells him, and if the guy isn’t holding him up against the wall in the backroom inside of half an hour - because he’d have to, because Bucky couldn’t reach him otherwise, Jesus  _Christ_  - then Bucky will eat Captain America’s shitty-disguise-hat. 


	94. Chapter 94

It’s all soft slick noises and restless hands, wandering mouths. Silent. In darkness. Relentlessly, impossibly hot. 

Clint’d - well, to say he could in any universe have expected this would be the biggest lie this side of the White House, but if he’d  _had_  any opportunity to expect he would’ve thought it’d be a little less certain, maybe? That there would’ve been some hesitation. 

He’s not complaining. Couldn’t find the breath to do it,  _fuck_. He blindly tangles his hand into Bucky’s hair and tugs just a little as the guy focuses his efforts on Clint’s neck, the line of his jaw. The tiny grunt he gets in response is - is  _everything_. 

It’s a hell of a motivator, that breathless almost-noise. 

Clint opens his mouth and pants soundlessly up at the ceiling, his free hand trailing down an impossibility of straps and buckles and leather until it curves just right, gives the guy something to push against. There’s the barest breath of a fricative  _fuck_  and Clint has to bite his lip not to say anything and break the moment, here. 

He figures it’s like this ‘cos it’s better when Bucky doesn’t have to remember who he is? It’s not like they’re close. The occasional meeting in the range; Bucky’s eyes seeking him out across crowded rooms so the guy can scowl at him, that kinda thing. Sometimes Bucky’ll bring him coffee in the mornings, probably ‘cos no one wants to deal with Clint when he’s pre-verbal. 

Clint - in the darkness, somehow skillful - unbuttons and unzips and sinks down to his knees, occupies his mouth another way. Carefully keeps the silence - that Bucky  _immediately_  breaks. 

“Jesus. Fuck,  _Clint.”_

Maybe that was the reason for the silence. His tone of voice says  _so much_. 


	95. Chapter 95

“Dogs don’t wear clothes.”

Clint snorted, shuffled around a little, his feet getting close to dangerous territory where they rested in Bucky’s lap. (It was a new thing, the closeness. New and… currently directionless, although Clint sure as hell knew where he hoped it was headed.) 

“How can you say that when Goofy is  _right there?”_

Bucky rested a hand lightly on his ankle, just the faintest brush where his pants had ridden up, callused thumb against hair-roughened skin. It resonated through him like adrenaline, like an electric shock. He smiled, slow, and Clint was caught between a welter of different emotions that he hadn’t been prepared for and wasn’t sure how to process. 

“And so is Pluto,” Bucky said, with ominous weight. 

“Okay, but, wait.” The conversation was almost on automatic, Clint’s attention almost entirely on the square inch of skin Bucky was touching, and everything that was left focused on the way the corner of his mouth was just a little soft, a little tentative, like it was making room for a smile. “Okay, then what the hell is Goofy?” 

Bucky spread his hands, and Clint barely bit back a whine at the loss of contact, because he was pathetic and possibly in some serious trouble, here. He cleared his throat. 

“You’re blowin’ my mind, Barnes,” he said. 

“Only your mind?” Bucky smiled, slow. Deliberately put his fingers back on Clint’s skin and then spread them out a little, inching under the hem. “Well, gimme time.” 

 

 


	96. Chapter 96

“Oh, shit,” Clint said, soft and a little muffled, considering. “I thought -” 

“Yeah?” the guy said, but Clint wasn’t exactly gonna finish the thought, not out loud. Wasn’t gonna say ‘hey, I thought Nat was the bait’, ‘cos - oh  _god_ , oh  _fuck_  - he was so very very okay with being the bait. 

See, Natasha was beautiful. Clint wouldn’t say he was the beast, not precisely? But he wasn’t what Natasha was, which kinda sucked because he wanted, sometimes. Admittedly that would be shit for missions, that wasn’t - okay, maybe that was why Natasha was the bait. Clint had messy feelings, they kinda leaked into everything he did - like the way he cooked, imprecise and messy, but it tasted fuckin’  _good._

There was absolutely a metaphor in there, it was just complicated to tease it out. 

The day had started kinda simple. Go to a coffee shop, meet a guy - a guy with long dark hair and a lost kinda look that Clint instantly wanted to dissipate. Instantly tried, with laughter and a smile that the guy seemed to wonder around, like it wasn’t something he knew. 

He’d offered pizza and a film, because Clint’s dates had never much progressed beyond grade 9, and the guy had looked so…  _new._ Was it any wonder they’d ended up here?

“Hey,” he said, interrupted a little by the jolting, “hey, you ever thought about joining SHIELD?”

“You gonna be there?” the guy breathed in his ear. 


	97. Chapter 97

Clint’s head is spinning a little, combination of kisses and beer, and he can’t stop grinning as he wends his way around the dance floor. They’re buddied up, right now, threats of death or some such, and Bucky is sitting by the bar ‘cos he’d somehow pulled Clint’s short straw.

“She’s pretty,” he says, and Clint grins wider, slinging his arm across Bucky’s shoulders and tugging lightly at his hair, ‘Cos beer’ll always help him do the things he’d never dare otherwise, the things he normally manages to resist.

“She thinks you’re pretty too,” he says, and that’s a hell of an ego-boost, ‘Cos up until that point Clint’d been kinda dubious about her taste. He leans in a little closer to Bucky, tells himself it’s so he can be heard over the music. There’s the slight shift of muscle as Bucky clenches his jaw.

“She wanted to know if you’d like to come along,” he says, warm and close, and he’s close enough to feel the faint tremor, but they’re not close enough for him to know what it means. Bucky’s eyes are dark, though, pupils blown wide, and Clint -

Clint leans in.

 

It’s an idiot move, an invitation to pain, and he’s so busy bracing that it takes him a second to realise that Bucky’s mouth has softened against his.

It’s soft and slow and couldn’t be further from the filthy grinding kisses he’s shared so far tonight; it affects him more than any of them. He blinks when Bucky pushes him away, taking a second to reorientate himself, licking his lips helplessly, Bucky’s eyes dropping to his mouth.

“So that’s a yes?” He says, softer than he meant to.

 

“That’s -“ Bucky looks a little lost, when Clint can bring himself to look. “That ain’t a yes,” he says. “I get you, I’m not sharing.”


	98. Chapter 98

“If I didn’t know any better,” Clint said, with a smile paired with a furrowed brow by a sommelier who had no clue what he was doing, “I’d think you were trying to seduce me.” 

Bucky couldn’t help it, he busted out laughing, one of the deep belly ones that no one but Clint ever pulled out of him. It took him hard, took him out at the knees, and he fell back into the chair he’d set up - by the table. The one that had Thor’s dry-cleaned cape over it as a tablecloth, with a pair of mismatched scented candles from Wanda’s room. He’d raided the base’s kitchen for silverware and not one bit of it matched, and he’d ordered in the finest takeout that an international fugitive could afford. 

“What the fuck,” he said, helpless, “gave you that idea?” 

Only Clint wasn’t grinning along with him - or he was, but in that way he did when he was pretty sure that  _he_ was the joke. 

“No, yeah,” he said, “that was dumb.” 

The lights were dimmed, the candles were lit, Bucky had got to the point of  _forcible_   _eviction_  with Steve ‘cos the dumb ape couldn’t take a goddamn hint, and Bucky reached out to wrap his fingers - as gentle as he could make ‘em - around Clint’s wrist. 

“Hey,” he said. “What’ve I said about calling yourself dumb?” 

“You said only you and Nat get to give me nicknames,” he said and the corner of his mouth curled up a little. “She calls me dumb ten times a day.” 

“And me?” 

“I dunno.” Clint shrugged the shoulder of the arm Bucky hadn’t gotten to yet, so he reached out to catch that wrist too. Clint gave him a defiant look, like he thought he was getting away with something. “Last week you called me sweetheart.” 

“Last week I was making plans,” Bucky said. “Thought I’d give you a run-up.” 

“I - plans?” 

“You never know any better,” Bucky said, thumbs sweeping over the inside of Clint’s wrists, slow and rhythmic, looking up into Clint’s eyes. “Mostly ‘cos you’re too busy assuming the worst. What’m I doing, Clint?” 

Clint’s eyes dropped to Bucky’s hands, and he swallowed, hard. 

“Trying to seduce me?” 

Bucky grinned, let go long enough to gesture at the table in all its lopsided glory. “And how’m I doing?”

Clint grinned, looked up to catch Bucky’s eyes again, something goddamn beautiful dawning in his own. 

“You didn’t have to try,” he said. 


	99. Chapter 99

Bucky slumped back further in the rickety chair, his arm slung across the back of Stevie’s ‘cos the guy was pushed so far forward in his seat he’d overbalance without it. 

“C’mon, Steve, you can’t actually  _believe_  this shit?” 

The fortune teller - who had predicted Steve a handsome dark stranger who would sweep him off his feet, someone whose heart shone in their chest because of their kindness - gave Bucky a filthy look. Admittedly it was the end of a long day, ‘cos Bucky’d managed to head Steve away from this little tent a hundred damned times before the little shit’d snuck away while Bucky was distracted by acrobats, sliding in under the tent flap just as the fortune teller was trying to haul it closed. Bucky’d muscled in afterwards, but too late to stop Steve handing over the last of their money. Bucky gave the fortune teller a wide smile, an edge of teeth, and their glare gained force.

“And what about me, sweetheart,” Bucky said, refusing to listen to how his heart thumped in his chest, ‘cos no one could prove anything when it was impossible to tell under all the drapery whether the fortune teller was a guy or a dame. “What’m I getting?” 

“A court jester in royal purple,” they snapped out, “but you will fall for him long before you meet.” 

Steve shot him a sidelong glance - he knew, of course, he knew, but no matter his goddamn ranting about equal rights he also knew Bucky didn’t want him mentioning it on pain of death - and Bucky shoved himself upright so quick his chair overbalanced. 

“Fuck you,” he said, low and vicious, and shoved his way out through trailing fabric and into the night air. 

*

In the mountains. Whole life flashes before your eyes, that’s what they say. It was a long fall.  _Well, you weren’t wrong_ , he thinks, nonsensically. 

And then he doesn’t think. 

Not for a lot of years.

*

There’s not a lot he remembers from his old life, but something about Stark’s suit strikes a chord, the way Stevie is around him. Bucky finds himself smiling a little easier when he watches them snap at each other, circling, because he has this feeling about it. Like he knows where it’s going. 

(He kinda feels that way about the archer, too.)


	100. Chapter 100

Clint doesn’t bother putting socks on, and the grilled metal of the fire escape is cold under his feet as he draws his bow. 

“Hey assholes!” he yells, “count of five!” They look around wildly and then one bright spark finally figures out  _up._ He’s only on four when they make a break for it, which is encouraging in terms of the average intelligence of the criminal classes but also a pain in the ass. He really feels like shooting someone, today. 

Loosing the tension on the bowstring takes a couple minutes, ‘cos he’s not  _technically_ supposed to be using it, just yet, and his ribs are - unhappy? Writing letters of complaint that’re gonna arrive in the middle of the night, probably, and he already knows he’s gonna somehow forget his pills downstairs. 

Sometimes Lucky’s good for that. Sometimes Lucky’ll patter downstairs and bring him a pill bottle; other times he’ll hear the gentle tick of retreating claws and be presented, on the dog’s return, with a remote control, or a phone bill, or - unnecessarily often - a potato. 

Clint honestly doesn’t remember when he last  _bought_  a potato, and he’s a little concerned about where they’re coming from. Still kinda make him feel better, though. 

He’s just about managed to lower his bow and is wondering how ducking back through the window’s gonna work when there’s an exasperated huff of air from behind him. 

Clint closes his eyes, ‘cos he’s still mad, he’s supposed to be  _still mad_ , and that’s gonna be really hard to sustain the second that he sees Bucky’s face. 

“Still mad at you,” he says, a reminder to both of them, and Bucky is uncharacteristically quiet as he helps Clint back through the window, helping as much as he can so Clint doesn’t have to bend. His hands are warm, and it’s like they remind him all at once how cold the misting rain had managed to get him. Clint hauls off his dampened sweater and grabs the black one from the bar stool and pulls it on over his head. Smells like Bucky, ‘cos Clint is self-sabotaging like that.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, and it’s the soft way he says all the things he really means, like he’s afraid the universe will overhear. 

“For what?” Clint asks, and Bucky lets out a long breath that stirs the hair on the back of his neck. Clint leans back into him and Bucky’s arms come up all careful around him. 

“For hurting you,” Bucky says, and Clint resists weaving their fingers together. 

“Wrong,” he says. “You need to be sorry for pushing me out of the way and assuming I can’t take care of myself, ya dick. The broken ribs are incidental.” 

“I ain’t sorry for being scared,” Bucky says, and Clint can hear him scowling, and that - that was a hell of an admission, right there. He relents, just a little. Pulls away and heads for the stairs, and likes the respect that’s shown when Bucky doesn’t immediately follow after him. 

“C’mon, asshole,” he says. “I might need a potato.” 


	101. Chapter 101

“Just for the record, Stevie,” Bucky says, the comms unit hidden by his long hair, “these hotdogs are  _delicious_.” 

“How long do you figure you’re gonna keep your cover, eating all the merchandise?” Sam cuts in, and Bucky’d aim a middle finger at the sky only that’s not so normal behaviour for a vendor at a hot dog cart, so he concentrates on wishing for a really small and localised lightning storm, instead. He’s parked his cart under a tree, that’ll keep him safe, right?

Stakeouts are, arguably, the worst, and his flak vest is riding up under his jacket, biting into his armpits. Steve got to stay in the SUV, and Sam’s on one of the surrounding buildings, and Bucky lost a bet so he’s the one in the remarkably phallic hotdog shirt with a couple hand guns hiding among the condiments. 

“What the  _hell?”_ Sam yelps, and Bucky ducks out from under the awning to take a look upwards but is a little distracted by - a customer? Maybe? 

“…Spiderman?” he says, doubtful as hell, and the guy grins a wide inverted grin, his purple mask shifting a little. 

“Sure,” he says, “Spiderman, why not?” 

“The hell,” Bucky says flatly, but there’s no denying he’s impressed as the man digs in his pocket and pulls out a crumpled five, dangling without apparent effort from his knees, the leaves rustling as he shifts his weight. 

“Jumbo please,” he says, “with every possible topping with which it can be possibly topped.” 

“That ain’t enough,” Bucky says, regarding the money, and the guy tries another of those winning smiles. 

“Also your bad guys are tied up in a dumpster in the alley next to the Starbucks?” he says, just as Steve starts swearing in Bucky’s ear. 


	102. Chapter 102

Gravel under boots grates like the squeak of grinding branches. Clint hunches his shoulders and doesn’t make even a token effort to move, rooted in place with his eyes closed and the breeze biting. 

“You supposed to be up here?” 

He’d expected Steve, or Sam maybe; the gravelly tones of Bucky’s voice comes as a kind of betrayal he wouldn’t’ve expected to feel, ‘cos he hadn’t known he thought of them as friends, exactly. There’s a whole complex forest of feelings he knows about - most of them unspoken and unspeakable - but aaw, fondness, no. He doesn’t have the energy to care. 

“It’s not heights,” he says, flat, snatched away from his aids by the wind; he’s kinda lost his context on what normal people hear, let alone supersoldiers, so who knows if he’s loud enough? “It’s balance.” 

“So -” Bucky says, “you supposed to be up here?” 

Clint shrugs, and tugs on Lucky’s leash, which is looped through his beltloops and clipped to a decorative planter which has the kind of crooked tree that grow on cliff tops and mountainsides,  battered and windswept and still standing strong. 

“This isn’t taking me out,” is what makes it out of his mouth, because his thoughts are only poetic in pictures, not in words. “A fucking concussion isn’t gonna -” 

The words dry up and crack like a riverbed. Bucky comes nearer and stands close enough beside him that there’s the tracery of heat, and his feet are braced apart, and he’s standing tall, and Clint - battered, windswept - turns toward him like sunlight. 

 

 


	103. Chapter 103

Bucky startles awake to the distant slam of a car door, and he stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling for a second, at a gentle brown water mark in the shape of Italy’s boot.

Says a lot that he doesn’t panic, come up swinging, scramble for the nearest weapon (which is the knife in his boot by the bed - he’s relaxing, he’s not an idiot). Instead he settles back against the pillows for a second, stretching out under the heavy old patchwork quilt, watching dust motes dance through the slices of light that sneak in around the curtains.

He aches in one of the good ways, exertion and rarely-used muscles and too little sleep, and he can’t help the slight grin as he eases over to the edge of the bed and contemplates finding a shower. He’s halfway out the door, tugging up his sagging boxers, when there’s a shriek from downstairs.

It’s like an electric shock down his spine, like his muscles twitch and react before he even gets to have a say in it, and he grabs a knife and vaults the banister, landing square on top of something plastic and brightly colored that immediately gives way beneath his feet. He’s met by four pairs of eyes - three curious, startled, and one amused and exasperated. Clint, who has in the time since he fucked Bucky through the mattress las night apparently somehow acquired some children, folds his arms across his chest.

“Get some damn pants on,” he says.

By the time Bucky returns downstairs - freshly showered, hair tied back and dripping, dressed in last night’s jeans and a shirt with a purple target that he’s not gonna give back - the kids are playing some mutation of a game that involves a GI Joe, three Barbies and a huge ragged bear. Bucky peeks in on them, but makes his way through to the kitchen where gentle sizzling is underlined by the soft country music on the radio.

“What,” he says, to Clint’s broad plaid-clad shoulders, “the fuck.”

Clint flips a couple of pancakes onto a growing stack and ladles in more batter, and Bucky only gets a profile-glimpse of his smile but even that’s a lot to deal with, the curling warmth in his stomach is a lot to deal with, so he looks away.

The room is - well, an interior designer’s never seen the inside of it, that’s for sure, and it’s a marked contrast to the Avengers’ shiny new base. It’s kind of an accretion, built up of bits and pieces over years, everything showing different levels of wear. There’s a dart board and a cork board and both are pinned with coupons and photos and flyers for local fairs. There’s a refrigerator somewhere under all the magneted drawings, and a stack of fraying recipe books, and a bunch of unwashed dishes by the sink that honestly seems like the easiest thing to process out of all of these. Bucky folds up his sleeves and starts the water running, grabbing the dish soap - floral scented, and an obnoxious shade of pink - and squirting it into the sink.

They work in companionable quiet, for a while, occasionally broken by Clint singing snatches of whatever’s on the radio, occasionally broken by the conversation of the kids.

“Syrup’s in the cupboard to your right,” Clint eventually says, closer than Bucky would’ve expected him, “and I think there’s berries in the fridge.” Bucky stills as Clint leans in even closer and brushes a kiss against his cheek - like that’s normal, like that’s somehow a thing they do - and it takes him a second to follow instructions, grab the syrup and the berries and make his way through to the living room.

The family are all sitting around a low table that’s painted in swirls of yellow and purple and pink, the two bigger kids in little wooden chairs and Clint on the floor with the littlest one on his knee. Bucky tries to make himself comfortable on the floor opposite him, aware of all the kids staring at him with curiosity but no real hint of anything wary.

“This is Lila,” Clint says, nodding at the little girl, “Nate,” dropping a big hand on the kid in his lap’s blond head, “and Cooper. Kids, this is daddy’s friend Bucky.” He drops a wink so lascivious that Bucky chokes on air, has to take a gulp of the juice that’s been set out for him.

“Coulda warned me,” he says, after a second, and Clint - apparently unconsciously, tugs Nate a little closer, a frown marring his forehead.

“Didn’t expect you’d stay,” he says, and it’s pointed, and Bucky’s honestly not sure what to do with that so he turns to Lila, instead.

“Hey, I like the table,” he says, and learns - in fairly short order - about how she’d painted it with her mommy when she was really small, and how Cooper had helped a bit but had been too small to help  _much_ , and how you can see where his fingers are in the paint, here, see? And then Cooper cut in to tell Bucky about how he helped and to show the fingermarks again, just to make sure Bucky knew where they were, and then somehow that segued into a conversation about favourite dinosaurs and Bucky catches Clint’s eye in the middle of it and somehow they’re both laughing, in the sunlight, over the syrup-soaked pancakes.

After, they carry the plates out and slide them into the cooling water in the sink, but before Bucky can run the water and get started again Clint corners him against the sink and kisses him deep and slow and filthy until he’s left gasping, clutching onto Clint’s shoulders to keep himself upright.

“I always woulda stayed if I thought I was invited,” he says, and Clint grins and kisses him again.

“You are always invited,” he says, low and meaningful, “but Thursdays we eat in Cooper’s dinosaur tent.”


	104. Chapter 104

“It’d be in your best interest to run far away from me.” 

“Oh, more than likely.” Clint smiled, slow and uneven, apparently not even noticing when the cut in his lip broke open against and started sluggishly welling blood. Bucky made an abortive motion, dropped his hand back to his side. 

“Things like this will just keep happening,” Bucky said, determined, keeping his eyes front and centre as Clint dropped to his knees at Bucky’s feet, fishing out lockpicks with fingers that were splinted together with scotch tape and a plastic fork. Clint hummed, clearly not listening to him, and set clumsily to work on the manacle that anchored Bucky’s ankle to the iron ring in the wall. 

“Clint,” he said, sharply, and Clint snorted and kept working. 

“Bucky,” he said, tone a mockery of Bucky’s, “don’t flatter yourself.” 

“…what?” 

Metal scraped and Clint swore, soft and under his breath. He threw something away that plinked gently in the shadows, selected carefully and went back to work. 

“Does this look like the body of a guy who makes good choices?” he said, and then - after a second of considering silence, laughed softly. “The  _scars_.” 

“Exactly,” Bucky said, self-recrimination in his voice. Clint hissed in satisfaction as something clicked. “You’re  _breakable_ , I shouldn’t be asking you to -” 

“You didn’t ask me for shit,” Clint said. He tugged and yanked the heavy metal away from Bucky’s skin, running gentle fingers over the welts that had been left behind. Welts that would fade within a couple hours, Bucky thought grimly, and opened his mouth to protest. 

“I’m doing this with or without you,” Clint said, before he could speak. “I’ve been doing this before I met you, and fuck you if you think you’re gonna stop me.” He sat back on his heels, looking up at Bucky, eyes impossibly blue against the greening bruises that surrounded them. “Only difference is if I have someone to kiss me better after,” he said, and there was something in his voice that had Bucky reaching forward helplessly to cup his cheek, thumb sweeping gently against the bruised corner of his mouth.


	105. Chapter 105

His phone is playing white noise raindrops in the corner of the room but it doesn’t quite drown out the hiss of cotton sheets as he turns over again, shifts his weight, tries for a position that will somehow trick his body into sleep. Everything is magnified in the dark - like that thing they make up about how senses are heightened when one is removed. Clint knows that ain’t true - he could always see this good - and he works with guys with  _actual superpowers_  so he’s not impressed. In the dark, though, in the dark of his room, with his aids still in because it’s been the kind of day where he’s a little scared to remove ‘em… 

It’s touch, mostly. The bed feels bigger, and emptier, and cold. He has an ache in his neck that won’t go away, and the back of his head where he smacked it against that wall, and there’re fine cat-scratch lines on his throat where the skin caught between metal plates. 

Hell - he’s been unconscious for a decent part of the afternoon. It feels unfair that he’s still this tired, and straining,  _yearning_  for sleep. 

Muffling a swear word in his pillow he rolls out of bed, hardwood floor stealing warmth from his feet. His last few messages have been delivered, have been read:  _I don’t care_ , and  _I trust you_ , and  _I always want you here_.  _Please?_  he adds to ‘em, and it’s delivered, and it’s read, so he’s not the only one waiting in the dark for sleep to finally come. 

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear again. A pulsing, stuttering, uneven movement, which probably says a lot about the thoughts behind them. Clint gives up and leaves it face down on the floor, climbing back into bed in the greying misery of the sleepless dawn light, sneaking in around the edges. 

It’s a while before the door handle clicks, before soft footsteps pad across the floor. Clint shuffles forward, an unmistakable invitation, and there’s a long breath in what’s left of the darkness. 

“I hurt you,” Bucky says, low and implacable. Clint’s said all this before -  _it’s not your fault_  and  _it wasn’t you_  and all the worlds he can try to build around Bucky’s guilt like a fortress, only he knows it never works. 

“Don’t care,” he says instead, and cocks his head demandingly so Bucky knows to take out his aids, fumbling with warm fingers - they’ll work on getting him to touch Clint with cool metal again. “Don’t care,” he repeats, muffled, echoing off the padded walls inside his own head, catching Bucky’s hand before he can pull away again and pulling it awkwardly over him until Bucky gives in, shifts his weight onto the bed. 

Bucky says something. Clint doesn’t know what it is. Probably true. Definitely irrelevant. 

“I always get hurt,” Clint mutters, awkwardly pulling the sheets up around them until Bucky lends a hand, warm breath against Clint’s neck and a hesitant brush of lips. “Sleeping without you is worse.” 

 

 


	106. Chapter 106

It had been a long fuckin’ day. The kind of long that dreams are made of, when dreams involve moving like your legs are in treacle, heading for a constantly retreating horizon. It had been the kind of day where ‘eating Hero Healthy!’ (another of Steve’s high school PSAs) could frankly go hang, and Clint needed some goddamn chocolate. 

He hadn’t made it further than the couch, but one of the modified Roombas had his back, grabbing a bag of Reese’s Cups outta the low cupboard and carefully wheeling back over, accepting his pats with a happy little chirp. Clint let his head fall back against the couch cushions and hummed his satifaction at the ceiling, the candy melting beautifully in his mouth. 

“Seriously?” 

There must be a hot water pipe running through the back of the cupboard, ‘cos the cups were a little melted, sticking to his fingers so he had to lick them clean. The next one he ate, he just stuck out his tongue and scooped the whole - 

“ _Jesus.”_

\- thing straight into his mouth, grinning around the gooey mouthful. He wiggled happily, arched his back slightly and then flexed his thighs so the cups stayed put in his lap. 

“I swear, I  _swear_  if one of you doesn’t do something about him I’m fuckin’ gonna.” 

Clint lifted his head and opened his mouth to protest when the bag was snatched out of his lap, but the wind was kinda knocked out of him when a supersoldier landed there instead, Bucky’s glare kinda undermined by the way it was fixed on his mouth. 

“You’re a fuckin’ tease, Barton,” he said, low and dangerous, his voice pitched just right to bypass Clint’s brain and head straight for his dick. 

“Only a tease if you don’t follow through,” he said, wound sticky fingers into Bucky’s hair and pulled him in for a peanutbutter kiss.


	107. Chapter 107

“Don’t,” Bucky said, at the end of his goddamn tether. It’d been the longest week of his goddamned life and he hadn’t been far off not making it back. All he’d been able to think about the whole damned time he was away was getting into bed with his boyfriend, and then - 

How the hell was he supposed to resist?

He folded his arms across his chest, like that would make the slightest difference. “I’m not kidding,” he said. “This ain’t -”

 _Fuck_. 

“Quit looking at me like that.” It was a half-hearted protest at best, and it was barely a minute later that he gave in. 

Clint returned from the bathroom to find Bucky all curled up with Lucky snuggled up against him, metal arm slung across golden fur. Both of them had their eyes drooping closed, and he gave up on the pipe dream of reunion sex, leaned over to drop kisses on both of their foreheads instead. 


	108. Chapter 108

“The Soldier’s down!” through the ear piece, crackling where it never quite married up right with his hearing aids, the fizz of static skittering down his spine. It’s cold on the rooftop, driving October rain washing away the last of summer’s grip on September, and visibility up here’s a bitch. 

Steve’s swearing on comms. No one says anything about swear jars, or keeping it clean for the kids, and that’s - that’s bad, that’s a bad sign, that’s -

Clint opens his mouth, but he has no fuckin’ clue what to say. 

They have this thing they do. It’s outside the locker room, gotta be, ‘cos Bucky’s always - see, Clint can shoot in his underwear, and fight in a santa hat, fall asleep and come up firing. Bucky, he’s worked so hard not to have it be everything that he is, he needs the separation. He needs the Soldier to be something he wears like a tailored coat and shrugs off at the door. So outside the locker room they take a second, take a breath, rest their foreheads together until features are blurry, until a face is all you can see. 

“After?” Bucky always says, fondness tugging his mouth into a lopsided grin. 

“See you on the other side,” Clint tells him, clasps the back of Bucky’s neck with both his hands laced together for just that second longer before they have to go. 

It’s the beginning of October and Tony’s a red and gold thematic blur across the fall sky and Clint’s hands are - Clint’s hands are so fucking cold. 

“Bucky?” Steve says, tinny in Clint’s ear, and he sounds breathless, he sounds like he can’t breathe. “Buck?”

“ _Clint_ ,” Tasha says, her voice uncharacteristically annoyed, like how repetition sounds in other people’s mouths (like sorrow sounds in hers). “Do you have the shot?” 

Clint tries to flex his fingers into something like still. 

He tries to tell her no, only he opens his mouth and there’s nothing left. 

 

 


	109. Chapter 109

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Attempted Sexual Assault

There was something a little crazy around the edges of the kid, but Stevie was in the hospital after nearly dying  _again_ , and Stevie’s mom was worn thin and worked fragile around the edges from all the bills that kept rolling in, and Bucky  _felt_ a little crazy sometimes. Felt like he wanted to burn down the world or go mad trying, and he thought he could find a reflection of how he felt in Brock’s feral grin. 

So far ‘it’ll be fun’ had involved dropping milk bottles off rooftops, scaring the shit out of cats, the shards of bright sound winding something all tight inside Bucky that made him want to scream or laugh or fight. ‘Trust me’ had been blindfolded walking along train tracks, the rush of the wind like distant train whistles in his ears, the world narrowed to the metal beneath his unsteady feet. 

He didn’t think he wanted Brock, but it was hard to tell the difference between lust and fear, hot writhing in his stomach, sweat prickling under his clothes. So it took him a minute to shove him away, the dark of the alley concealing whatever expression Brock wore. 

“It’ll be fun,” he said, voice low and mocking, and Bucky was used to that turned against the world, not against him. “C’mon, trust me.” 

“Nah,” Bucky said. It wasn’t an effort to keep his voice steady, but he thought maybe it was gonna be, soon. “You’re not my type.” 

“What, you’re too good for me?” Brock’s voice was sharp like shattered bottles, dangerous like metal tracks. One time Brock had shown him where he carried a knife. Bucky realised, a little too late, that Brock was between him and the entrance to the alleyway. That back here there was nothing but shadows in the dark. 

“Sure,” Bucky said, ‘cos he’d never backed away from any of the fights Stevie’d started, and he wasn’t gonna start now. “Sure as hell prettier than you.” 

“Well that’s sure true,” an unfamiliar voice said, and Bucky yelped and shoved himself backwards, barking his elbow against the brick wall. Part of the shadow unfolded, tall and slender but broad right where it mattered. The orange streetlight that bled down the alley caught highlights in his pale hair. 

“The fuck are you?” Brock snarled, voice vicious and full of teeth. 

“The guy who’s gonna kick your ass,” was the easy reply, and Bucky reached out and snagged his wrist, holding him back. 

“He’s got a knife,” he said. The guy twisted his wrist a little so he could brush rough fingers against the inside of Bucky’s wrist. 

“You can trust me,” he said, implacable like Brock did, but it didn’t scare Bucky at all.


	110. Chapter 110

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Implied character death

“Okay,” Clint says, eyeing the tanks of bubbling liquid, the many,  _many_ wires, the obvious countdown timer obviously counting down. “So this looks bad.” 

“Nah,” Bucky says, putting down his gun and rubbing his hands together. “I got this. You go get the prisoners out, I’ll join you by the shipping containers in five.” 

“Winter Soldier skills?” Clint asks, with a grin, and Bucky snorts. 

“Sure, something like that.” 

Clint jogs along the corridor, picking the locks he can, shooting out those he can’t, and hustling the scared prisoners ahead of him. 

“How’s it going?” he says, after maybe a minute and a half. “You good?” 

“I’m the best,” Bucky says, and Clint can’t help laughing. 

“That’s not what you said last night,” he says, heavy on the sleaze, and Bucky chokes a little on comms. 

There’s a little tense moment around minute three, a shootout with a couple beekeepers they’d previously missed, and Clint winds up with a crease in his bicep and a renewed respect for the stength of Tony’s bows. 

“You good?” Bucky asks, and Clint grins. 

“I’m fine, you know me.”

“I know you, that’s why I’m asking.” 

“Of the two of us,” Clint says, “which one’s the liar? Who finished the goddamn Cheerios and blamed it on Kate? Who tried to accuse Lucky of breaking the fibre-optic Jesus that you hated?” He reaches the end of the corridor and breaks out into blessed fresh air, hurrying the former prisoners out ahead of him, sending them running across the parking lot to the shipping containers in the distance. “Got ‘em out,” he says. 

“I love you,” Bucky says, in that absent way he does, like it’s not even little hard to say. “And I don’t lie about the important things.” 

“Me too,” Clint says, like a coward, like a cop out. He’s scanning the shadows around the shipping containers, looking in vain for black leather and a smug smirk. “Where the hell are you?” 

“I  _mostly_  don’t lie about the important things,” Bucky says, and Clint sucks in a painful breath and turns back, too late. 


	111. Chapter 111

“Just follow me, I know the area.” 

Bucky took another look back at the media circus that had surrounded the other Avengers - Tony looking like he was in his element and Steve turning into some kinda GI Joe the way he always did in front of cameras. He considered riding to the rescue for all of a second, before he recalled the kind of questions they’d asked him, the few times he’d let a microphone get close to his face. 

“You insinuating I don’t know Brooklyn?” he said, turning back, and Clint grinned. 

“I’m insinuating you lived here a hundred years ago, gramps, and I woke up here this morning. C’mon.” 

Wasn’t like Bucky was reluctant to follow the guy pretty much anywhere - his biceps were somethin’ beautiful but even they didn’t have a patch on his  _ass._ Even Rhodes, who seemed about the only one pf them who wasn’t queerer than a dollar bill, had practically composed odes to it after some of Thor’s mead. 

Clint wrapped warm fingers around Bucky’s wrist and tugged, holding on for a second before letting go. 

“You coming?” 

Fuck it. They knew where all the media were, and it wasn’t, right this moment,  _here_. Bucky reached out and grabbed Clint right back, caught the guy’s hand in his and responded with a grin when Clint looked back at him, a little confused, a little something that might be hopeful. 

“Wherever and whenever you want me to, doll,” he said. 

 

 


	112. Chapter 112

Bucky curled his hands into fists, tugging at his own hair like the pain of it would do anything to distract him from the noises in the room behind him. He tried to focus on the gentle beeping down the hall, the squeak of Crocs on linoleum, the murmur of voices. 

“No,” Clint called out again from behind him, “ _no!”_  

Bucky bit through his lip again. 

The wipe-clean cushion on the seat next to him let out a protesting huff under Steve’s weight, and Bucky leaned sideways into him automatically. 

“How’s he doing?” 

“Doctor’s think he’s gonna get through it,” Bucky said, and his voice was about as steady as you’d expect. “Did you -” 

“Yeah, we got her.” 

“Make sure she goes someplace really bad,” Bucky said, dully, and Steve tensed up a little. 

“She’s not going anywhere, Buck.” 

“ _Good_.” 

Steve dropped an arm across his shoulders, pulled him in. 

“I thought you’d be in there,” Steve said, non-judgemental but curious maybe. It was probably about time they talked about it, but Bucky was still way too close to the part where he was still expecting Clint to die. 

“I got blue eyes and long dark hair,” he said instead. “Everytime he looks at me right now he starts screaming like I’m his worst nightmare.” 

A doctor came out of the room behind them, tucking a pen into her pocket and hurrying away. 

“ - want Bucky.” Clint’s voice was quiet, bit-back, sobs half-swallowed the way he’d learned as a kid. 

“I know,” Natasha’s voice eased through as the door slowly closed. “Baby, I’m sorry, I know.” 


	113. Chapter 113

Whatever the hell they’d given him, Bucky was high as a kite, his pupils black and bottomless and almost as wide as his grin. Clint swore and heaved him a little higher against his side, holding him up by the back of his leather suspenders and the arm Clint’d hauled across his own shoulders, dismissing the idiot fuckin’ thought that wrapping his fingers around Bucky’s wrist like this was almost like holding hands. 

“So, what, they figure bootlegging’s too much effort, now? Gonna try for something harder?” 

Bucky mumbled something, sagged a little, and Clint heaved him off and pinned him against the wall of the alley they’d been staggering down. 

“You with me?” He tapped at Bucky’s frozen cheek with fingers that were barely warmer, tried to tilt his head up a little. “Barnes, you in there?” 

“Clint,” Bucky said, soft as flower petals and twice as sweet, and what Clint wouldn’t give to hear that tone out of him on any other day. Any day he hadn’t been drugged to the gills, drugged outta his gourd, tied up and left for dead on a warehouse floor. 

“I told you not to go with them,” he said, fear speeding his voice up the same way it sped up his heart, sped up his breathing until his lungs’d almost clamped shut when he’d seen Bucky lying there, so still. “I told you they were gonna try somethin’, but you just had to -” 

He tried to pull Bucky upright again and the pained noise - like he was so  _tired_ , like he knew he had to but he couldn’t help but be sad about it - went right to Clint’s heart. 

“I know, baby,” he said, gentle as he knew how, “just a little further, okay?” 

“Called me baby,” Bucky said softly, tipping his head into Clint’s neck. Clint stuttered into a laugh, heart in his idiot mouth. 

“Now? Now you listen to me?”

 

 


	114. Chapter 114

Bucky’s hand was shaking. 

Out of all the idiot things this goddamn crush had done to him, this was the most humiliating - Bucky’s  _hand_  was shaking, just ‘cos some goosestepping asshole with a familiar haircut and some familiar foaming rhetoric had Clint hauled up in front of his chest. 

Outta the Avengers, it was a good choice. Clint was simultaneously the tallest of them and the slowest to heal, the most likely to die of it if Bucky got this wrong. Not that the look on Clint’s face held any doubts whatsoever about Bucky’s ability to do this right. 

“C’mon,” Clint said, ignoring the way the guy’s arm tightened around his neck except for the way it thickened up his voice. “I know you’re no me, but you can always Bruce Willis me, baby.” 

(They’d watched the absolute goddamn ridiculousness of Die Hard 4 just a week ago, Bucky spending almost the entire film thinking about reaching over and grabbing Clint’s hand.) 

“I am not shooting  _through_  you, idiot,” he said, anger tightening up his grip like nothing else could, and less than a second later the guy’s head was whipping back; less than a second after that Clint was complaining loudly about brain matter on his suit. 

Bucky slumped down onto the floor and put his head between his knees for a second, while Clint babbled happily about having to get himself into a shower, and about how that would go better with two. Bucky tried to ignore him - he was gonna have to do something about these goddamn feelings before they got one of them killed.  


	115. Chapter 115

Bucky spent the morning getting a bunch of splinters, trying to fix the fencing around the hen houses well enough that nothing would get through, ‘cos he was getting kind of sick of finding itty bitty mouse corpses when he tried to collect some goddamn eggs. Bertha spent half the time growling at him - he had not been previously aware that chickens could growl, but how else could he describe a sound that so obvioudsly meant ‘I will fuck your shit up’ - and the other half pecking painful holes into the sneakers he’d stolen from Clint. 

Around 11, Clint called from town to let him know that the truck had blown something, or lost something, or possibly fallen to pieces, and that he likely wasn’t gonna be back until late in the afternoon. Bucky sighed and hung up the phone, then checked down the list and went to milk the goats. There were three of them, Ethel, Esme and Enid, and all of them made a spirited attempt to eat his hair. After a quick lunch, standing up at the counter, watching dispiritedly as Ethel happily ate her way through the romaine lettuces he’d convinced Clint to plant, Bucky worked on fixing the gate on the goats’ field, finally managing to fashion a latch that would keep the damn thing shut outta three coat hangers and a broken bow string. 

From three until he lost the light he was working in the barn, ‘cos as hard as he tried a mechanic Clint was not, and the tractor had been belching black smoke for a couple days now. He finally had to give in around seven, wiping oily hands off on a rag and crossing back to the house where the porch light had come on, summoning every moth in a three mile radius to ping gently against the bulb. 

He’d just gotten the door open when bright lights lit him up from behind, and he leaned against the door frame and waited as the headlights bumped their slow way along the rutted track that passed for a drive. 

“Trucks working again, huh?” He said, when Clint swung himself out of the cab. “Tractor, too.” 

Clint grinned - even in the half light, you couldn’t miss something as wide as that - and he climbed up the steps and pulled Bucky into his arms, stooping to kiss him like girls always got kissed in the pictures, knocked off balance and kinda giddy with it. 

“You been working hard, sweetheart?” he asked, and looked a little worried with it, a crease between his eyebrows that Bucky immediately set to smoothing with his thumb.  “I know you didn’t ask for this.”

“I never knew to want it,” Bucky said, and - ‘cos that was too honest, even for half-light and the way Clint smiled - “besides, I’d’ve married you just for the goats.” 


	116. Chapter 116

Bucky blinks awake to the sound of Clint’s voice. Specifically, to the sound of Clint’s voice when he’s been talking a while, when he’s clearing his throat after every other word and he needs someone to bring him water. It’s so clear, that realisation, that chain of events, that Bucky starts moving before he’s even all the way conscious, gets yanked backwards by the handcuffs closed around his wrist. 

“Hey,” Clint says, slow and tired but happy with it, “hey, there’s my boy.” 

It’s dark, wherever they are, but what little light there is is enough to show that Clint’s got him at gunpoint. Half-hearted, maybe, but Clint Barton even halfway aiming a gun at you is more deadly than any twelve other people on a bad day. It’s the gun barrel that Bucky notices first, the open mouth of it, and it takes him a second to look past it to the mess someone’s made of Clint’s face. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, smiling lopsided ‘cos that’s the only smile he’s got left in him. 

“Who -” Bucky starts, but it ain’t exactly a real question, ‘cos Clint was  _holding a gun on him_. 

“No, hey,” Clint says, and he’s slurring his words a little, and Bucky grabs the cuffs that are holding him back and wrenches them out of shape because who the fuck knows what kind of injuries Clint’s hiding under his clothes, “’sokay, Bucky, it wasn’t you.” 

That doesn’t stop the tiny flinch, though, when Bucky gets closer. He tries to hide it but it’s there, like a fault line running right through Bucky’s heart. 


	117. Chapter 117

Bucky took in a deep breath, let it out slowly through his nose, ‘cos punching through someone’s sternum and pulling their spine out through their  _chest_  was probably not the best way to endear yourself to a new team. 

“Please,” he said through gritted teeth, “can you quit putting the pop tarts on the highest goddamn shelf.” 

“But then Tony gets them,” Clint said, using that tone of voice that was annoyingly reasonable. He was wearing one of his more infuriating smiles, the ones that seemed reserved entirely for Bucky. 

“Tony  _pays_  for them,” Tony said in the distance. “Also Tony’s considering wearing repulsor boots to breakfast.” 

“Well it’d be an improvement on the boxers-only look,” Clint said thoughtfully, to Tony’s distant ‘ _lies!’ “_ Also,” Clint continued, “Tony should know that talking about himself in the third person is weird and creepy.” 

Tony wandered over, leaning against the countertops and smirking. “Tell that to someone who didn’t see you meet Dwayne Johnson,” he said, and Bucky was kinda fascinated, the way that pink flushed all the way up from Clint’s chest. 

“Okay, no judging,” Clint said, folding his arms across his chest. “The Rock is  _hot.”_

 _“_ Not denying he is,” Tony said, which was fascinating in about three different directions, especially when considered in light of what Clint’s sleeveless shirt did for Clint’s arms and Bucky’s libido, both. 

“Pop tarts?” Bucky asked, getting Clint’s attention back to what was important. Clint rolled his eyes and reached for them, then smirked, holding them over his head. 

“What’ll you give me for ‘em?” he asked, and Bucky shrugged. 

“I might just kiss you,” he said, and hoped that this particular smile of Clint’s was just for him, too. 


	118. Chapter 118

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: offscreen main character death

“Big man,” Bucky’d taunted him once, when Clint was feeling scrappy, reminding him of Steve. Unexpectedly, Clint’d grinned - one of those heartstopping ones that he handed out like candy, that Bucky’d never told he kinda wished had something special behind them. 

“The biggest,” he’d said, with a wink, and had played nice until the end of the fight ‘cos he’d been waiting to show Bucky a couple photos of ‘Goliath’, Clint all pumped up like the Hulk and dressed like - he was reliably informed - ‘an ‘80s fitness video’. 

“Jeez,” Bucky’d said, sliding a thumb absently across the swoop of blond hair on the photograph - Clint - Clint’d kept it shorter now. “You’d really do just about anything to be a hero, huh?” 

Clint’d shrugged, face closing off. 

“Got a lot to make up for,” he’d said. 

It’d always seemed, though, like the things Clint felt he had to make up for were always on someone else. His brother, or his mentors, or Loki - people who’d seen the light in Clint and wanted to snuff it out. People who’d seen the big man he really was and wanted to squash him down to size. 

‘Cos he was. No matter how you counted these things, no matter how you measured them.  

 A big damned hero.

(Big enough they’d lost their grip on him when they’d dragged his body away). 

 

 


	119. Chapter 119

It is either the best or the worst weather for assassinations. The sky is a gray ceiling, radiating light like fluorescence; no direct sun to ruin his aim, but the sort of fuzzy gray to pass as shadow that hides nothing and no one. He has chosen a roost, long-distance, and he will make his way up there in plenty of time to carry out the job, but right now he is scouting as many routes as he can to safety afterwards.

The Soldier feels strange in the civilian clothes that are best for this kind of work. Unlike himself, whoever himself could be said to be. His heavy canvas jacket is dark gray and covers a multitude of weapons; his hands are covered with black leather that creaks when he clenches them.

His head jerks up at the sound of pounding feet, this alleyway already dismissed as an escape route because of the uncertainty of the terrain; the Korean restaurant five doors in has an acquisitive relationship with cardboard boxes, and they have been here long enough to have coated the alley floor, treacherous and slick. They take the guy who pelts down the alleyway out, his feet skidding out from underneath him. He - taller than the Soldier and coltish, all limbs and baby face - crashes shoulder first into the side of a dumpster with bruising force, lands hard on his hands and knees.

Men crowd the end of the alleyway, all dressed similarly, like they’re going for calisthenics. The man at the Soldier’s feet is the only anomaly, dressed in torn jeans and a sleeveless shirt, a black leather cuff around his left wrist and a buckled collar around his throat. He scrabbles across the trash covered ground, ducking behind the Soldier’s legs, and it is the first time in a very, very long time that he has been the lesser threat.

“You don’t want to get involved, bro,” a wheedling voice says, echoing down the alleyway and making the kid at his feet flinch. “Give us kid and we get out of all your hair, yes?”

The Soldier considers. The advantage of specific orders is that there is room around the edges of them whenever something unexpected occurs. He has no parameters, here.

“Don’t.” The low voice is the kid’s, and the Soldier looks down to find him kneeling now, looking up at him, wide blue eyes and a jaw like steel. He has hearing aids curved over his ears, and when he swallows the collar around his throat moves. There is no known category in which to put the way that makes him feel.

“Why?” he asks. The men at the end of the alleyway are coming closer; he has done nothing yet that will establish him as a threat in their eyes. He will allow them another seven feet.

“You want me?” The kid says. He curls a shaking hand around the Soldier’s ankle, fingers like ice sliding under cloth, brushing the skin above the Soldier’s boot. “You’re - you’re a Dom, right? I could be good for you.”

The Soldier doesn’t - he swallows, hard. He can’t seem to drag his eyes away from the boy at his feet who is working to appeal to instincts that he doesn’t know the meaning of; that he didn’t know he had. Something in his gut seems to startle awake, something hot and vicious and all-encompassing.

It is a smooth movement, even hampered as he is by a shoulder that is already turning purple, heading for black. The kid pulls the knife out of the Soldier’s boot and whirls to throw it, catching in the closest man’s shoulder; there is something about the precision with which he throws that suggests it is deliberate, that he did not hit him in the throat.

Soft-hearted.

The Soldier has a split-second decision to make, and he makes it. The knife at the small of his back goes to the kid.

“Do not throw this one,” he says, and there’s a spark of a smile that he is moving almost too fast to see. A gun from his shoulder holster that is smashed down into a man’s nose, too close; he has allowed himself to get too distracted, and now they are all around him, but their soft clothes offer nothing in the way of defence, the heavy gold chains they wear easy to use against them. The kid stays out from under his feet and that is all he has time to appreciate until he is done, all of them down and groaning, at least five men earlier than he should be.

He turns to find the kid, bleeding from his lip now and with a shallow slice across his side, sinking down to his knees and smirking a little as he flips the knife to hand it back, handle first. The Soldier tucks it into the small of his back and then reaches out again, almost against his will, to thread leather-clad fingers through dark golden hair.

“Good,” he says, his voice painted dark by instinct, by something he doesn’t understand. “You did good.”

The kid’s breath stutters, and he leans into the Soldier’s hand.


	120. Chapter 120

Bucky considered the guy from his perch on the stack of mats in the corner. It was the most defensible spot in the range, and he figured he was gonna need it when Natasha came after the remnants of her candy stash. 

(He’d already worked through Steve’s. Sad eyes and a mention of his protein only Hydra diet and Steve melted like wet cotton candy.)

The guy - Barton, Clint, aka Hawkeye (1 of 2), additional akas and costume pictures increasingly ridiculous, he’d always been Bucky’s favourite file - was a pleasure to watch, Bucky wasn’t gonna lie. Archery had honed his musculature and also served best to show it off; the skill his shooting displayed was just a bonus. 

Bucky had met Thor, though, and while he didn’t  _think_  there was any time shenanigans going on, he still called over. 

“You’re aware we’ve progressed past the medieval, right? I mean, we have invented guns.” 

“Paleolithic,” Barton said, then turned to look at Bucky while  _simultaneously hitting three bullseyes._ It was the hottest thing that Bucky could remember seeing; it was the hottest thing he could imagine to be seen. “And yes, I’m aware. Your point?” 

Bucky considered, then grinned his very best grin. Clearly a relationship to nurture, for defensive purposes if nothing else. 

“You want some candy?” 


	121. Chapter 121

He left before it got light outside, electric kitchen lights cutting through the darkness because there was no one within miles to figure him inconsiderate. Except Lucky, maybe, grumbling under his breath, but Lucky would have a car ride to snooze through and a lake to flounder in after, so Lucky could keep his own counsel. 

Traditional fishing supplies - big bag of cheetos, six pack of mountain dew and a bucket of bait worms - plus a disordered jumble of tackle that he loaded into the back of the truck as is. He’d figure it out when he got there. 

The sun was coming up when he arrived, the lake breathing out mist, and he spent fifteen quiet minutes unwinding lines, punctuated only by gentle swearing and the soft sucking sounds of Lucky coating himself liberally in mud. 

The row boat was a battered thing, still patchy purple in places, and he almost capsized it pulling Lucky in out of the water. The sun was starting to bake off a little of the mist, by then, but Lucky did his best to contribute to it, steaming faintly a miasma of lake mud stench, and Clint resigned himself to bathing the dog and the inevitable wrestling match that would entail. It would be something to fill the evening hours, anyway, something to hold back some of the dark. 

Once they were a little way out on the lake, Clint baited hooks and strung lines and attempted to find something like comfortable in the bottom of the rowboat, dozing gently as the water slowly rocked them. It wasn’t anything like sleep but it was closer than he’d gotten in what felt like weeks, now. If it wasn’t the nightmares, it was reaching too far for something that wasn’t there, crashing awake on the floor next to the bed. 

Bucky’d stopped calling three days ago. It was. It was for the best, was what it was. He didn’t deserve Clint’s shit. 

If Clint’d been by himself he’d’ve likely stayed out there all day, mind wide open and filled with nothing but distant birdsong, the gentle splashes of fish that ignored his bait like he’d paid them to do it. Would’ve crisped up good and proper under the deceptive fall sun, rowed back with sunstroke-stiff hands. He had Lucky to worry about, though, and rowed back around noon, figuring they could go for a long walk through the woods - maybe a trail run. If he broke something, way out here, well maybe Lucky could go for help. He’d stopped carrying his phone when Bucky’d stopped calling. 

There was someone waiting by the dock when he pulled in. Hat pulled low over their face, but he’d know those shoulders anywhere, and he hunched his own in ways that did nothing for his already rusty rowing skills. Lucky was braced against the front of the boat - Clint’d never had much time for the technical terms - and wagging hard enough to rock them in the water; he dived off when they were close enough to shore, soaking Clint with the splash. By the time Clint’d pulled the boat in they were all tangled up on the dock together, Lucky licking at every bare patch of uncovered skin and Bucky grinning like he hadn’t at Clint in a while. It was a very specific sort of pain, like a fishhook in his heart. 

“I told you I wanted space,” Clint said, eventually, ‘cos he had to start with an accusation, ‘cos there was no way in hell he was going to win this fight so he was gonna go down swinging. 

Bucky didn’t snap back, though. He looked up at Clint like Clint was something worth looking at, even dog-tired and unshaved and barely laundered as he was. 

“Yeah,” he said, “well you’re an idiot, so we’re done with that. We need to talk.” 

For the first time in Clint’s goddamn life, the words didn’t sound like a threat. 

 

 


	122. Chapter 122

“No,” Bucky said, “and that’s final,” which went nowhere to explaining how he wound up following Steve out the damned door anyway. That was how his relationship always went with Steve, though - putting his foot down only to find that Steve’d tied a rollerskate on it without him noticing, so he could tug Bucky along after him all the easier. 

It wasn’t one of Bucky’s good days. He’d slept badly, restlessly dreaming, his shoulder aching like it was trapped in a vice. The day’d been a regular bundle of petty frustrations; packets he couldn’t open, hair he couldn’t tie back, a splinter from the stair rail that Steve’s ham-hands had broken that he had no chance getting out on his own. Last thing he felt like doing was getting dressed up all nice and going out to meet up with Steve’s new best friend Natasha, meet up with Natasha’s best friend who they were just  _sure_  he’d get along with. Mood he was in, he wasn’t about to get along with anyone, so he left them behind at their table and went to grab a stool at the bar, scowling at the hockey on the TV behind it. 

A beer landed in front of him, and he switched his glare to that instead, lookin’ around for Stevie’s idiot grin, the besotted look he always got around Natasha. Instead he found a different blond, a little scruffier, a lot prettier, who offered him half a grin and lifted his own beer. 

“Looked like you could use it,” he said, and Bucky reached out to snag the bottle, sliding it a little closer and making no bones about looking the guy up and down. He had two fingers splinted together and a yellowing bruise along the line of his jaw, and he was the kinda mess that made Bucky wanna mess him up further, see how he looked tugged halfway out of his clothes, ‘cos he looked like the kind of fella who’d be so hot for it he wouldn’t let ‘em get all the way undressed. 

“Yeah?” Bucky said, and took a slow swig, holding eye contact. Smiled a little around the bottle. “What else do I look like?” 

The guy’s eyes darkened and he licked his lip. 

 

 


	123. Chapter 123

Bucky doesn’t talk a hell of a lot, but Clint pays attention, ‘cos he knows when a thing’s worth watching - that was pretty much how he’d got Nat. So he knows when Bucky’s being stoic, and he switches out the coffee in his morning mug for a few different things before he hits on chicory coffee he ordered special from New Orleans and delights in the slight relaxation that’s almost a beaming smile. 

Clint acts like a dick and shuffles them all around in a restaurant, complaining about non-existent breezes and princess and the peases until they’re configured in a way that has Bucky with his back to a wall and a clear exit either side, and he would swear he’s not imagining the gentle nudge that he’s gonna take as a thank you. 

You’ve kinda got to do the speaking for Bucky, see. He’ll talk to Steve but not much around anyone else, and so Clint watches his micro-expressions and starts dragging him out for lunch, reading his face and working on his victory dances when he gets it right. 

The aggravating thing is that he doesn’t know exactly how Bucky feels about all this. The guy watches him, but micro-expressions about waffles are a hell of a lot easier to read than whatever is on his face when he looks at Clint. 

Comes in handy, though. 

Clint balks at following the Doombots any further and plants his feet, darting out a hand to grab Bucky by the wrist. 

“You guys go ahead,” he says, and they’re all looking at him like he’s crazy, but there’s a muscle in Bucky’s jaw that’s twitching as he meets Clint’s eyes and Clint knows that something ain’t right. 

“Go,” Bucky says, and Steve startles a little but still listens to him, dragging himself reluctantly away, Clint and Bucky standing square in the alley until Steve’s footsteps have faded. 

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes, maybe the first word he’s said directly to Clint, and there’s something in the fact that he trusts Clint enough to show that he ain’t steady on his feet - although maybe that’s just the blood loss, ‘cos when he lets his forehead fall onto Clint’s shoulder, when Clint puts a hand to his side to help him stay up, Clint’s hand comes away red. 

 

 


	124. Chapter 124

“What?”

Bucky swallowed, dry mouthed, and then shook his head. 

Clint was only at the end of the bed but his expression made him seem miles away, right then, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his shirt dangling from one hand and his face showing nothing about where was safe to tread. 

“Don’t,” he said, a little too quiet, and then signed  _again, please_. 

Bucky pushed himself a little further up against the headboard, sheet-covered knees like mountain ranges between them, and he considered for a second whether he was asshole enough to make the distance interplanetary. Whether Clint would bother making the journey back. 

So he made his face a map. Relaxed enough to show what was there, even if inches were still miles between them. 

“I don’t know where we’re headed,” he said, although he was no kinda compass ‘cos he always seemed to be twisting himself around to face Clint, no matter where he was. 

“I don’t need a roadmap,” Clint said. “Just some kinda direction would be nice.” 

“Maybe we can work out where we’re goin’ in the morning.” He cleared his throat, raised his voice a little so this time it’d cross the space between them. “Can you stay?”


	125. Chapter 125

Even the guards eventually sleep, because the cave has been occupied so long that it’s worked its way into legend, and legend is only ever the barest half-step away from myth. It’s a place for childhood dares and teenage bravado, but it’s a place that everyone knows not to actually  _go._ The wise woman of the village had walked back and forth in front of the entrance, muttering and rattling and scattering, to keep the monster inside; and because the head woman is just as wise in her own way, they’d also invested in iron. 

Iron has always kept the monsters at bay, because iron is whatever the opposite of magic is made of; more importantly iron is heavy, and iron is sharp. Twisting lengths were forced down into the ground, pointing at the cave mouth like jagged teeth; a heavy ring is sunk into the wall and the links of the shackles trail back into the darkness. Sometimes they move. It gives the local children a thrill. 

All of the defenses and yet no one thought to trim back the greenery, branches that are still green in midwinter arching over the cave mouth, gently pattering needles and the archer landing lightly and making only barely more sound. 

“Hey, honey,” he says, and the shackles move more than they have in years, rusted flakes of iron scraping free. “I’ve come to rescue you.” 


	126. Chapter 126

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (more mob boss Bucky)

“There is a certain taste to it,” Clint said, flushed a little along his cheekbones, his mouth curling up into an irresistible grin, “a hint of silk-wrapped summer evenings,” and they lasted all of a second before Bucky snorted and Clint cracked, almost crying into his wine glass. 

“You appreciatin’ the bouquet, sugar?” Bucky asked solicitously, as the sommelier stood stoically by, and Clint nodded and tossed back the contents of his glass, holding out a shaking hand for more. There was a sidelong glance in his direction and Bucky waved an impatient finger, ‘cos anything that made Clint smile like that was worth $300 a bottle and cheap at the price. 

Clint’s smile kinda faded when he squinted at the menu, though, and he started chewing on his lip, so Bucky had to put his thumb there instead, smoothing across the soft skin. 

“Clint?” 

Clint’s eyes had always been heartbreak-blue, even before Bucky had gotten to know him, before he had fallen so deep. 

“It’s kinda expensive,” he said, and made a face, self-deprecating, same way he always did at moments like this. Bucky slid his fingers back along the line of Clint’s jaw and tugged him closer, soft but irresistible, so he could kiss him back into a smile. 

“You don’t like it here we’ll go someplace else,” he said, “anywhere you like. How ‘bout that place a couple blocks down, with the burgers?” 

“Yeah?” Clint said, smile slow-dawning, and Bucky nodded and watched two of his guys get up and leave the restaurant so they could case the diner before they got there, make sure the way there was clear. Leave them free to walk there with a bottle of stupidly expensive wine dangling from Bucky’s fingers, his hand-sewn jacket pressed up close against Clint’s secondhand shirt. 

 

 


	127. Chapter 127

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Implied character death

Clint got taken down pretty early in the fight, crumpling at the knees and falling into a messy heap, and it just made Bucky determined to fight harder. He got up high so he could take up the slack, picking off targets with a fierce sort of glee. He couldn’t wait to tell Clint about the number of ‘bots he’d taken down, about the shot through two windows at the corner of a building, couldn’t wait to argue about whether or not ‘bots had facial expressions, whether or not it’d been as dismayed as Bucky was gonna insist. 

Clint was gonna be  _pissed_  that he’d missed this fight, disgruntled and rumpled and squinting a little with his headache, which was gonna give Bucky an excuse to tease him a little gentler than usual, soft in ways he usually didn’t allow himself. He might even get to be there when Clint woke up, hazy blue eyes sharpening as he did a quick visual check of them all, made sure they were all okay before bitching about his head. 

If he was  _really_  lucky - if the universe chose to smile at him for a change - they might get a day without any supervillains tomorrow. A day for sweatpants and computer game battles,  _Dog Cops_  and pizza, one of those days where they eased in as close as could be still considered platonic and Bucky wondered whether today one of them was gonna finally be brave enough to nudge it over the line. 

He got so caught up in thinking about it that the fight was over before he noticed, Tony hunting down stragglers with a fearsome vindictiveness, and Natasha disappeared off somewhere, most likely avoiding the clean up. Bucky wandered over to where Steve sat, his head in his hands. 

“Hey, pal, why the long face?” he said, something in his stomach sinking as the silence went on a little too long. He looked around, his mouth moving on automatic, “hey, did Clint wake up, yet?” 

Maybe he knew. Maybe even before he saw Steve’s white face, the way his mouth was working without sound like he didn’t even know what the hell there was to say. 


	128. Chapter 128

Steve’s wrist says ‘Don’t say it, don’t you say it -’ which always sounded about right. Stevie is a guy who’s never learned to keep his mouth shut, and it made  sense to Bucky that the person he loves’d be someone who wasn’t afraid to tell him when to stuff it. 

Bucky’s was - honestly, he was always a little afraid it’s a sex thing. ‘Listen, I can’t explain it, you’ll just have to trust me’ sounds a hell of a lot like something someone’d say if you found them in a supply closet with a zucchini and a whole bunch of Crisco. 

It was one of the most recent things to come back. His memories are - Stevie says patchwork, but that kinda implies that you’ve got all your spaces covered; it kind of implies that it makes up something that’s a little prettier to look at. Bucky’s memories are threadbare and motheaten, and the links between them are tenuous at best, and there’s never any telling when things will be coming back. 

It hurt a little, when he finally remembered his arm, the scratchy writing that he’d always rubbed a thumb over when he was feeling alone. There was a shinier bit on the metal where he’d always done that, even before he’d remembered. He’s got no illusions that he’s gonna get anything out of this memory - Stevie got his happily ever after, sure, but Bucky is pretty firmly convinced that some day he’ll remember someone saying his words to him, that he’ll remember the moment right after where he shot them in the head. 

He’s making a home for himself here, though. He’s adjusting. He’s meeting all the many and varied crazies that make up Steve’s superhero troupe, and it kinda feels like he’s learning to be a person again, maybe. 

So far the only guys on the team he hasn’t met are Thor - who apparently lives on another planet, or possibly in another dimension, or maybe in some kinda heaven, it’s never been exactly clear - and Clint, who’s no kinda superpowered and therefore possibly the weirdest of them all. 

He’s kinda disposed to like Clint - there’re a lot of stories that get told, soon as they’re gathered around a coffee pot, and Clint’s always seem to end the funniest - but he’s not prepared for the long blond tangle of limbs that falls out of an air vent and almost on top of him, spreading his hand wide just as soon as Bucky pulls his gun and opening his mouth. 


	129. Chapter 129

Bucky’s picking curiously at the edges of the bandage on his belly when Clint appears in the doorway. He’s still rumpled, fight-stained, and his hair is particularly disheveled - it looks like someone had to literally pin him down and wrestle him into the sling he’s wearing, which is a hilarious mental image with an overlay of something warmer and deeper-feeling that Bucky’s not equipped to think about, right now.  

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, sitting up, wincing a little as he does so because he’s very used to pain but the stitches tug in ways that disconcert him. 

“Am  _I_  okay?” 

Clint comes right over to the bed where Bucky’s sitting, a little too close where he’s peering down at Bucky’s stomach, and his fingers are twitching a little like he’s physically forcing himself not to reach out. 

“Your shoulder was dislocated, right?” Bucky asks, and Clint stares at him like he’s crazy. He’s looking a little wild-eyed himself, actually, and Bucky reaches out to brush fingers against his wrist. “Clint -” 

“I am not the one,” Clint says tightly, “who got cut up bad enough for stitches  _even with magical super-healing!”_

 _“_ It’s not mag-”

“I thought you were gonna die!” Clint yells - actually  _yells_ , and Bucky’s not sure he’s heard him do that before. “You  _unbelievable asshole_.” 

“Hey,” Bucky says weakly, not sure entirely what he’s done to deserve this, and Clint punches him in the shoulder pathetically, hardly more than a brush of fingers. 

“Fucker,” he says, and his voice is a little thick, and Bucky doesn’t quite understand what the fuck is going on but it is suddenly imperative that he not let Clint go so he reaches out and snags him by the good wrist, pulls him around to face him. 

Clint looks  _wrecked_. He looks like someone’s snatched the world out from under him, and there is nothing in their relationship up to this point that would lead to this unless you take it back to the beginning and build it up with a different foundation, with Clint coming from a different direction entirely. 

Bucky reaches up with metal fingers and touches the corner of Clint’s eye, a little disbelieving when they come away wet. 

“I’m okay,” he says. “Clint, I promise, I’m fine.” 

“Yeah, well, stay that way,” Clint says, and he’s mumbling a little, talking down to the floor, tugging against Bucky’s grip on his wrist like he wants to be anywhere but here, only Bucky’s just realising how unacceptable that is. 

“ _You_  stay,” he says, nonsensical, but at least it gets Clint to look up. At least he doesn’t have to bend too far and risk his stitches when he leans in for a kiss. 


	130. Chapter 130

 He felt a little like there was a vice around his chest. Steve carefully stood to one side in the elevator, giving him as much room as it was possible to give in the small space, and Bucky crossed his arms across his chest and ducked his head. 

Everything he had remembered, everything he had read, everything in his collection of notebooks strapped tight to his back was telling him that he could trust Steve; every instinct was telling him to stab the guy and run. Even now, even in the elevator up past the floors and floors of Stark Industries, there was a part of him that knew he was making a huge mistake. 

“It’s okay,” Steve said, out of the blue, and Bucky realised that the gentle ticking noise that had been getting faster and faster was his fingernails clicking against his metal arm. He took a breath and deliberately held himself still, but couldn’t help startling when Steve turned his head and offered a small smile. 

“It’s okay,” he said again. “They’re gonna love you. They’re good people, Buck.” 

“Right,” Bucky’s voice was low and he couldn’t keep the bitter out of it. “I’ll fit right in.” 

The gentle ping of the elevator reaching its destination was enough to make him flinch a little again, but Steve was good enough not to mention it. 

“Tony’s in Miami at the moment,” Steve told him, leading the way into a luxurious living area. “Rhodey and Pepper have gone with him, and Sam’s back in DC for now, so it shouldn’t be too -” 

There was a loud crash from the room adjacent, the kind that somehow kept on happening, long after it ought to be done. A woman’s voice hissed something, tone of voice poisonous, and a guy said something through laughter, getting louder as he approached at speed. Bucky took a step back as the man swung through the doorway, using the frame as a pivot and taking advantage of it to get a head start as he charged across the room, treating the furniture as simple inconveniences as he hurtled in the straightest line possible towards the corridor that led out of the room. 

A spoon flew, straight and swift, and pinged off his backside. The man swore and kept running, starting to zigzag as the rain of kitchen implements continued - a spatula, a grater, a ladle that bounced off his head with a sound like a cartoon. 

“What the fuck,” Bucky said, his voice wondering, and Steve turned to face him, spreading his hands. 

“It’s not always like this, Buck, I swear,” and his voice was placating, and his expression was worried, and Bucky could feel his mouth moving into the first smile he could remember in round about seventy years.


	131. Chapter 131

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Bondage

Clint adjusted the angle of one of the ropes just a little, and Bucky bit into his lip as the silk scraped over his nipple, painfully sensitive after the clamps Clint had asked him so persuasively to wear last night. Everything was heightened, like this, and everything was a reminder of Clint’s control - even hair that kept tugging because it was braided back just slightly too tight was like a reminder of who he belonged to, like fingers running over his scalp. It was a long slow torture of something almost like pain, and everything in Bucky was oriented towards the blissful anticipation of release - was oriented towards Clint, who was the only one he gave this kind of power to.

The harness that Clint had braided together for him supported his weight at evenly distributed points. If he shifted too far in any direction, if he relaxed and rested his weight, it could easily become uncomfortable - but never dangerous, because Clint had made it for him, and he was safe in Clint’s hands. Of course the man who had been the Winter Soldier could never fear discomfort; what kept him kneeling in place, perfectly pinned and displayed, was that Clint wanted him there. That was all. That was enough. 

“Hey.” Clint tapped lightly against Bucky’s jaw, and Bucky opened eyes he wasn’t even aware he’d closed. He loved Clint’s expression at moments like this. The closest word for it was probably awe, but that didn’t cover every aspect, didn’t convey how Clint looked at Bucky like he owned him and belonged to him, both; the word didn’t hold nearly enough in it to cover everything they were to each other, and how that showed itself on Clint’s face. Bucky blinked slowly and eased his way into a smile, and Clint kissed him gentler than anyone had ever touched him - gentler than anyone had ever known he needed.   


“You’re so good for me, baby,” Clint murmured, and at moments like this Bucky felt like he could be. Like the world narrowed down to them, and their histories fell away, and the balance of Bucky’s soul was weighed against only what he did here, now, for Clint. In this moment, he could be perfect, and he could never in life express how grateful he was for that except through this devotion of obedience.   


“Perfect,” Clint said, “you’re perfect, don’t move.”   


And Bucky didn’t. And he was. 


	132. Chapter 132

“What if I don’t see it?” 

A cold hand wrapped itself around Clint’s throat for a second and he had to swallow hard to clear it, but he made sure when he tugged on Nate’s ankle that there was a smile on his face, even though the kid couldn’t see it. Nate shrieked a little, and clung to the top of Clint’s head, and by the time he spoke the warmth was almost entirely genuine. 

“I know one hundred percent you’re gonna see it, baby,” he said. “Know why?” 

“‘cos Papa promised,” Nate said, and Clint lightly squeezed his ankle. 

“‘cos Papa promised,” he repeated, “and Papa doesn’t break his promises. Now you gotta help me out here. Papa’s comin’ up from Cuba, and that’s in the South, so that means I should be facing -” he turned around in a circle, Nate clutching his ears in delight, and stopped facing back towards the house. “This way, right?”

“No! Daddy no!”

“No?” Clint spun around again, Nate’s shrieks of laughter echoing off the trees. Back in the house he could see a light on in Connor’s bedroom, could picture the two of them arguing over who’d get which pair of binoculars. “Should I face the orchard, then?” 

“The  _barn_ , daddy!” 

“Oooh, the  _barn_ , right.” 

They stood there in dark and the silence for a second or two, no sound save the crickets and the wind in the trees, and then Nate stiffened up on his shoulders, his little fingers tugging too hard on Clint’s hair. It was another ten seconds before Clint’s aids picked it up, the distinctive whooshing of Tony’s technology, and then the Quinjet erupted over the trees, and Nate almost knocked Clint sideways with how hard he was waving. 

“See?” he shouted, all the fear evaporating out of him all at once, leaving him hollow and light and about ready to blow away, “didn’t I tell you?” 

“PAPA!” Nate shrieked, and Clint had to hold on hard to his legs so the kid didn’t wave his tiny self right off his shoulders. The Quinjet waggled its wings as it passed overhead, just a little, and missing Bucky was one of those weights in Clint’s chest that knocked against his heart and reminded him he was living. 

The Quinjet disappeared again before it oughta, low over the forest, and Nate gasped. 

“Daddy is it crashing?” 

“It’s not crashing, baby,” Clint said, but he started walking towards the trees anyway, breaking into a jog to loud protests from above. “Although what the hell he  _is_  doing -” 

He stopped dead when he saw the dark figure emerging from the treeline. 

“PAPA!” Nate shrieked again, almost shorting out Clint’s aids it was so loud in his ear, and Clint had to swallow again and again, had to make sure his voice didn’t break around Bucky’s name. 

“I thought you had a meeting with the WSC,” he said, “I thought we weren’t gonna see you for another week.” 

Bucky grinned and reached out, hauling Nate down into his arms and covering his face with stubbly kisses that Nate loudly protested against, giggling helplessly. 

“Captain America can take it,” he said, “‘cos Sam’s being an A-S-S-hole this week. Plus how the hell was I supposed to miss my favourite little guy’s birthday, huh?” 

“Bucky,” Clint said, in spite of the weeks of planning, in spite of the stash of candles and the laundered tablecloth and the ring that was waiting in his nightstand drawer, “Bucky, I’m gonna need you to marry me, okay?” 

And Bucky grinned to the distant sound of the front door slamming open, to the distant delighted shrieking of their kids. 

“Sure,” he said. “I promise.” 


	133. Chapter 133

They blame it on adrenaline, the first couple times. You get that worked up, stuff happens - in the locker room, in the supply closet on the 23rd floor, in the elevator (quick and breathless and way more eye contact than you’d expect  _Jesus_ , Clint thinks,  _Jesus his eyes are so blue_.)

Only then Clint finds himself getting a little disappointed, any time the fight doesn’t take as long as they expected, doesn’t need violence to sort it out, doesn’t get anywhere close to his nest. Finds himself pacing the tower like he’s working off adrenaline, only the issue here is that there’s no adrenaline for him to work off. 

So yeah, maybe he takes a couple risks. (Bucky grinning against him as they pant into each other’s mouths.) Maybe he gets in closer to the action than he usually needs to. (Jesus,  _fuck_ , his  _hands.)_ Maybe he gets held at gunpoint, hands laced across the top of his head, and - 

and Bucky doesn’t come near him for weeks after that one, watches him from the other side of the room. 

And the time after that - slow, and careful, and so fucking gentle that it kills him a little inside - he figures maybe it wasn’t what he thought it was, after all. 


	134. Chapter 134

Bucky flinched away, the first time Clint tried to take his hand in public, which was a pretty firm signal and - disappointing, sure, but at least they still got to have sex. 

Sex with Bucky was flexible and athletic and just about the best he’d ever had. 

It was also, he realised with a sinking feeling in his stomach, never in the bedroom, and always somewhere with the lights out, and  _oh._

Shit. 

The thing was, ten years ago Clint woulda been all over that shit. He’d been cockier and easier with his affections, and ten years ago Clint would’ve thought that Bucky was just about the best thing in the universe. 

Clint now, he thought that Bucky was  _definitely_ the best thing in the universe, which was why he maybe wasn’t the best thing for  _Clint_. 

“Aaw,” he said, “emotions. No.” And then he said “Sorry,” and “I kinda caught some feelings, which is embarrassing,” and “I hate myself for saying this, but I think we’ve gotta stop.” 

He’d caught it early enough that a couple pints of icecream and some awkward silent hugging with Natasha was enough to get him back out into public spaces again, even if his heart had this constant dull ache. Bucky helped out by being mostly invisible, the first week or so, so Clint was somewhat startled when Tony announced a movie night and Bucky came and took the seat next to him, sitting stiffly in the space that was usually Tasha’s. 

It was fine, Clint figured. It was… kind of an effort not to lean into his warmth, and he had to bite his tongue a couple times to stop himself from leaning over and whispering inappropriate film commentary in his ear. And then, just during the climactic battle sequence, Bucky’s cold fingers bumped awkwardly at his hand, clumsily winding their fingers together between them. 

Clint froze. Completely still. Not sure what the hell this was, or what was expected of him. Not sure how to deal with the fact that the lights came on and Bucky didn’t walk away. 

No one said anything - although they got a couple of sidelong looks while Clint quietly hyperventilated while trying to move as little as possible - until Steve walked past and cocked an eyebrow. 

“So it’s like that, huh?” he asked. 

“Keep walkin’, punk,” Bucky said. 

“What?” Clint asked, when everyone else had gone, when it was just them sitting next to each other, awkwardly holding hands. 

“I grew up a long time ago,” Bucky said quietly, “I never knew it could be this way.” He shifted around a little so he could look at Clint, moving a little clumsily because he wouldn’t untangle their hands. “You willing to give me a little time with this?” 

“I’d give you pretty much anything you asked for,” Clint said, which was essentially nuking all his self-defenses from orbit, but Bucky’s smile woulda done that anyway. 

 

 


	135. Chapter 135

Clint smeared the back of his arm across his eyes, because he was pretty sure Barney was still around here somewhere and he’d kick Clint’s ass if he saw him cry. Dad got mad if they cried, and Barney said he had to practice, and Clint had  _tried_ , he had bitten down on his tongue and screwed up his eyes but he could feel all the hot blood trickling down his leg and - and it wasn’t even the  _hurt_  of it, it was the way he still felt shaky-scared and all he wanted was his mom but she didn’t much get out of bed, these days. 

“Shit,” he said. And then, “ _shit_ ,” again, louder, ‘cos his dad would beat his ass if he knew and sometimes doing things he knew would make his dad mad was a little bit like the flavour of freedom, too. 

“Language,” a guy said, and Clint spun around and clenched his hands into fists even where the gravel had eaten into them, where he was gonna have to wash them out and clean up after himself. 

The guy was an old guy, and his hair had streaks of white through the blond, and his eyes were clear blue like Clint’s were. 

“You can’t tell me what to do,” he said, and the guy rolled his eyes and laughed like Clint’d told a joke. 

“No sir,” he said. “Sure as heck never could.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a square of white cloth and held it out to Clint, between his two fingers so the cloth was as far away from him as he could get it. “Here,” he said, “you want to clean yourself up?” 

Clint considered him for a second or two, then darted in and grabbed the cloth, pulling away again before the guy could grab him. The guy didn’t make a move, though, just watched him as he mopped away some of the blood, poked at the hole in his leg so he could get some of the rocks out of it. 

“Where’re your folks?” the guy said, and Clint scowled at him. 

“At home,” he said, “but my brother Barney’s probably around here someplace and he could kick your ass.” 

“He looks after you?” 

Clint shrugged, and rubbed his arm under his nose, and looked up at the clouds and a lone bird, circling, ‘cos sometimes that made the tears go back in. 

“I look after myself,” he said, after a second, and it mostly sounded angry instead of sad, so that was okay. 

“Yeah,” the old guy said, and  _he_  didn’t have to hide the sad. “Yeah, I’ll bet you do.” He let out a long breath. “You’re not always gonna have to, though,” he said, after a moment. “Someday you’re gonna have someone who loves you more than you could ever imagine. Someone who has your back and makes sure you’re safe and looks at you like you hung the moon.” He smiled, a little crooked. “Someone who’s with you ‘til the end of the line.” 

“You don’t know that,” Clint said, and folded his arms against the empty feeling in his chest, hugging himself a little. 

“Sure I do.” The guy gave him a smile that made him look a lot younger, and a lot kinder, like the kinda smile you’d hope your best friend gave you, maybe. “I know a lot of stuff you don’t know, Clint.” 

 

 


	136. Chapter 136

The phone buzzed itself off the bathroom counter and it startled him enough to get soap in his eye. He did his best to ignore it, rinsing the shampoo out and rolling his eyes at the conditioner in the rack that he was never gonna get around to using, no matter how prominently it was left out. 

He stepped out of the tub and wrapped a purple towel around his waist, hooking his aids in before bending to grab his phone - which had three missed calls, apparently. Wasn’t something that happened often, especially when all of them were from Natasha, who was more likely to send a one word text message. One letter, if she could get away with it. 

When it started buzzing again in his hand he sighed. 

“Yeah?” 

“Which favours did you call in and why?” 

Clint rubbed a hand over the stubble he’d been persuaded not to get rid of, scratching under his chin. 

“No idea what you’re talking about,” he said. You might as well lie to Natasha, ‘cos she always knew the truth anyway. 

“This has you written all over it. Fiji? Really?” 

“You looked like you could use a break,” he said. “And if Steve’s got to the point where he’s believing that the Winter Soldier is in  _Fiji_ of all goddamn places, you’re not the only one.” 

“You’re set against us finding him,” she said, and Clint leaned over to open the window, letting out some of the steam and breathing in the cold fresh air. 

“I think it’s best for everyone, right now.” 

“And you’re not going to come back.” 

“I can’t come back.” Clint snagged the bath mat off the floor and hung it over the side of the bath, ‘cos he’d learned he’d get an earful otherwise. The bedroom door was still open, and he could see a sliver of the room; tousled hair, a carelessly outflung arm. “I got something better going on.” 

 

 


	137. Chapter 137

Clint trailed his mouth along the join between skin and metal, his hand curled and loosely moving; Bucky tipped his head to one side to give him better access, so he could watch him with a slightly better view. 

“I like your scars,” Clint said, out of nowhere, because he always managed to read Bucky’s mind that way. “I think they’re kind of beautiful.” 

“Strike,” Bucky said, ‘cos the only agreement they’d ever made was that they weren’t gonna lie to each other. 

“Umpire’s fuckin’ blind,” Clint said, and tightened his hand for one blinding stroke that had Bucky’s head falling back against his shoulder, helpless, unable to protest. 

“Beautiful,” Clint repeated in his ear, “‘cos these’re the things that tried to kill you and fuckin’ failed. Every one of them got you here, and how the hell am I gonna hate things that did that?” 

“Don’t,” said Bucky, a muttered complaint that Clint ignored, trailing his free hand up over Bucky’s chest and resting it over his heart, and Bucky always had to work so hard to ignore the stuff like that, the things Clint did that could mean something if he was willing to fool himself like that. 

“You think, when we’re done, that I’m gonna leave a scar?” 

And Bucky bit down on a no, ‘cos he was almost all the way convinced that he wouldn’t survive that.

 

 


	138. Chapter 138

“You’re talkin’ through your hat, Stevie,” Bucky said, feeling unaccountably pissed at the turn the conversation had taken. He leaned against the other side of the elevator and folded his arms across his chest, tipping his chin down so his hair fell a little in front of his face. 

“If you say so,” Steve said, but he was wearing the particular smile that meant he wasn’t buying what Bucky was selling. That smug little smirk of his looked exactly the same, no matter how much meat he’d put on in between. 

The elevator chimed softly, announcing their arrival in the penthouse. The day was the kind of beautiful that made putting up with Stark worth it; the sky was clear and blue and a million miles wide. You could see out over the whole city from up where they were, and Bucky instinctively craned his neck to see the furthest point of the helipad, a grin stealing its way onto his face when he saw a familiar set of wide shoulders perched out on its precarious edge. 

“See?” Steve said, smug in his ear, “that’s what I’m talking about!”

Bucky scowled and shoved his shoulder into Steve’s. 

“You shut your mouth,” he said, ‘cos Clint’s perch out there wasn’t the only thing that felt precarious. 

 

 


	139. Chapter 139

Clint tried to shift his weight but Bucky’s hands were unrelenting, one pressing his crossed wrists down against the scratchy wool of the blanket, the other firm over his mouth. 

“You gonna be good?” Bucky muttered, hot in his ear, and Clint rocked his hips up as hard as was possible under Bucky’s weight and shook his head. 

The truckle beds they’d been issued with were rickety and narrow and likely to collapse under the weight of one man, let alone two; Clint could feel it shifting under him but he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit, not when Bucky was so solid above him, pressing down on him just an inch shy of perfect. Sharp teeth fastened on his ear, tugging at the lobe, and Clint moaned in the dark stillness of the space. 

“I  _want_  you to be good for me,” Bucky said, low. He wasn’t usually the talker. He didn’t usually ask for things. 

Normally Clint’d be begging right now. He couldn’t help but run his mouth, moments like this, and normally he’d be pleading with Bucky to just fuckin’ touch him, something,  _anything, Jesus_. Since Bucky was determined to keep him quiet - since tents were anything but soundproof and Clint got  _loud_  - he had to relearn the language of this. 

Clint relaxed. Went pliant, although not entirely still, shifting like a request this time instead of a demand. Softened himself - aside from certain, key areas - and let himself be held down. 

Bucky pushed himself up just a little - Clint couldn’t help another hitching moan at the weight against his wrists - and looked down at him with something complicated and kinda wondering on his face. 


	140. Chapter 140

Bucky was like a neglected plant that had grown in darkness - kinda sad, kinda twisted, but ready to grow just as soon as there was a change in environment. He thrived in the rich surroundings of Tony’s tower, flourished in the constant light of Steve’s affection, and pretty soon he was producing prize-winning watermelons all of his own. 

“You’re an idiot,” Natasha told him, when he said all this, but Clint knew how to hear that right - she didn’t stop combing her fingers through his hair, even if she did take his beer away. It was a win, and Clint would take it. 

Clint did his part, in the gardening. At first he may have stayed away - ‘cos new plants needed gentle handling, and Clint had kind of a black thumb - but eventually he weighed in. Plants grew better when you talked to them, he was pretty sure, so he made an effort to engage Bucky in conversation, to tease him, to make him smile those prize-winning watermelon smiles. 

The smiles kinda became the prizes all their own, though. Kinda became necessary, like air and water and sunlight, and Clint found himself straightening up some and growing right under their influence. 

He kept talking, too, ‘cos maybe it was helping both of them. It was the shock of his goddamn life, the first time Bucky kissed him, told him he was sweet and maybe they should be sweet to each other. Clint figured that, in other words, that meant Bucky was kinda grateful to him, wanted to pay him back a little, and he wasn’t a good enough person to stop him. 

It was like a trellis, holding hands with Bucky, and Clint became a little concerned he was entwining them too far, curling into him, weaving their fingers together like vines. 

“Maybe I could move into your place,” Bucky said one day, bright-eyed and happy, curled up in the sunshine spot that fell across Clint’s bed, and he found himself agreeing before he’d had a chance to run it through his internal translator. He figured - if he listened right - that Bucky wanted space; Steve’d taken to gardening with an unholy fervour, and plants needed room to grow, right? So moving out to Bed-Stuy with him would give Bucky a little more space, a little more air. Clint just had to make sure their roots didn’t get too tangled, ‘cos he was more than a little concerned that uprooting Bucky again afterwards, whenever this whole thing ended, would leave him rootless and struggling to anchor himself back in the earth. 

“Hey,” Bucky said one day, leaning against the kitchen counter with his ankles crossed, hair bed-tangled and dumb-looking, every long line of him relaxed and sun-warmed, growing right and happy, “I love you.” 

Clint blinked at him, tryin’ to work out his angle, figuring out how the hell to hear that right, ‘cos there was no way -

“Listen,” Bucky said, and Clint  _was,_  he was trying - “No,  _really_  listen.” 


	141. Chapter 141

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Implied character death.

Of course Steve’d never said the words to him - Steve wanted to go  _with_  him, not for Bucky to stay - but he woulda, if he had. 

Feels like Bucky’s been waiting his whole life to matter enough for someone to ask him to stay. Feels like he’s never been good enough, though, for anything more than rumpled sheets and socks lost on someone else’s floor, leather shoes chewing into his bare ankles as he walks home through sleeping streets. 

“You’re welcome if you want to be,” coming from Tony Stark’s lips, ain’t exactly what he’s wanting, but it’ll serve the purpose for a little while, he figures. It’ll hold him over until someone -

Clint’s not a big talker, not for the important stuff. He grins and claps a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, pulls him into a hug, eases closer and sidles his way in. He puts out a second toothbrush. He leaves the covers of the bed folded back on what’s become Bucky’s side. Bucky wants desperately to say yes if only Clint would goddamn  _ask_ him, but - 

“Stay with me,” Clint says. The rain’s falling straight into Bucky’s face, and that’s the only way he knows he’s lying down on the ground. It’s cold, gettin’ colder, and he’d get up if he could only remember how his limbs are supposed to work. The sky’s gettin’ darker, maybe. Maybe that’s just his eyes. “Bucky, you gotta stay.” 

Bucky wants desperately to say yes. 


	142. Chapter 142

Even before Bucky knew who he was - before Bucky was even  _Bucky_  again - he’d known that Hawkeye was a force to be reckoned with. Hydra were quick to dismiss him, never believing that an unenhanced human could be anything like a threat, but the Soldier didn’t calculate based on anything other than skill and strength, both of which the archer had in spades. If preferences were a thing he was permitted, he would rather an enhanced amateur than a skilled fighter, any time. 

Just ‘cos he got closer to ‘em didn’t mean his opinion changed. He perched in the rafters of the range and watched as Hawkeye fired straight and true, testing and proving himself over and over and  _over_  again. He was quick and deadly and determined in ways that sent a little shiver down Bucky’s spine. If he fucked up - if he fucked  _this_  up - he wouldn’t be afraid of Steve comin’ after him. He’d be afraid of  _this_. 

Fear wasn’t it, though. Fear wasn’t all of it. 

Maybe it was the loyalty. The way he put himself on the line for the people that mattered to him, risking death daily to keep them breathing. Maybe it was the sense of humour even in the darkest times, the way he pushed back against it and faced it with a lopsided grin. Maybe that was why he couldn’t ever get the hang of looking away. 

The interviewer laughed at his answer, musical, her hair falling back over her shoulder where it’d been swept just so. 

“Seriously?” she said, a little incredulous. “You’d want  _Hawkeye_  at your side?”

Bucky shrugged, tried not to scowl. 

“Guess there’s just something about him,” he said. 


	143. Chapter 143

 The candle seemed over-bright in the darkness of the hallway, but without it Clint had no hope of finding his way about - since the wedding he had had little chance to explore the house. Besides, he had had little wish to stray from the suite of rooms he had been given, as the servants were silent but watched him with dark eyes, and his husband had been so inconsistent as to confound him utterly. Some days he seemed blank-faced and indifferent, barely even deigning to look at Clint, and others he seemed more human and infinitely sadder, keeping to shadows and slipping out of sight. 

Just this evening Clint had happened upon him, wild-eyed and afraid, his rich clothes disordered and his beautiful face taut with fear. Clint’s heart had betrayed him, thumping hard inside his chest at the sight of the man that he still knew nothing of but dreamed of every night. He had intended a greeting, something harmless and courteous, something that might lead to conversation - but instead his husband had turned to face him, something like despair in his face. 

“Run,” he had whispered, looking wildly around as though someone might be watching unseen. “ _Leave_  this place.” 

An arranged marriage it might be, but Clint was not so faithless as to desert a promise, nor so weak as to leave someone so clearly afraid. He had no notion of the whereabouts of his husband’s rooms, but he suspected they had not been placed even within the same wing. He was determined to speak with Lord Buchanan, though, so he had descended the East stairs tonight to cross the hallway to the West when his ears caught a distant, muffled scream.

It was impossible that he should recognise it - they had barely exchanged any words - but somehow he  _knew_  that the voice was his husband’s. Clint ran on light feet to a place that he was sure no door had been before - yet the wood panelling hung ajar, the distant light of torches bleeding out across the hallway floor. 

Clint crept down through the shadows, candle cupped close, moving with all the stealth he had learned in his father’s house. His bare feet made barely a sound, and any noise he might have made would have been hidden by the wretched scream again. He ought, perhaps, to have been afraid, but he found himself furious instead, murderous as he peered around the corner to find his husband struggling against black-clad servants who worked to force him into a nightmarish chair. 


	144. Chapter 144

“Ooh, secrets?” Tony grabbed a chair from another table and dragged it over, its legs screeching across the cafeteria floor. “I love secrets.” 

“Fuck off, Stark,” Barnes said, but that was basically their standard greeting now, and Tony was certain he was wearing the guy down. There hadn’t been any murder threats in at least a week, which he was fairly convinced meant they were practically best friends now. He was gonna wait a few more days before he suggested the sleepovers and hair braiding, though. 

“Be nice, Bucky,” Steve said, because Steve was basically Tony’s hero. 

“It’d be good practice,” Sam said, “for when you talk to -” 

There was a thud, and a clatter, and Sam’s chair somehow disappeared out from under him; Tony was deeply impressed that he emerged from under the table unruffled and still holding his unspilled milk. 

“For god’s sake, Buck,” Steve said, exasperated, and Barnes folded his arms over his chest, slouching down in his chair in a way that was gonna do long-term damage to the integrity of his lower back. 

“He was being a punk,” Barnes said, unapologetic. 

“Who’s being a punk?” 

Tony looked up, interested. This guy was new, which was automatically interesting, and extremely tall, which was automatically a thorn in Tony’s tiny side. He was blond - not Steve-blond, but corn-field blond - and he had a shirt with the sleeves torn off and biceps to die for. He also had a pair of hearing aids hooked over his ears, and Tony instantly wanted to take them apart, although he had the social skills not to say that yet. 

“Hi!” He held out a hand and smiled his most practiced media-trained grin - his father would be proud. “I’m Tony.” 

“Clint,” the guy said, his palm kind of rough as he grabbed Tony’s hand. 

“It’s a  _pleasure_  to meet you,” Tony said, ‘cos he was nothing if not opportunistic; plus it was kind of fun looking over to see the sheer vicious intensity of Bucky’s scowl.


	145. Chapter 145

It’s this moment - this barest breath - between what Clint’s done and what Bucky’s going to do. They’re far too close for Bucky to think about it, so it’s reduced to everything that’s not thinking: the sensation that isn’t quite touch of Clint’s breath in his hair; the warmth that slips across the slightest distance between them; the way he’s far too near to see it right but he can somehow  _sense_  Clint’s helpless smile. 

It’s been coming for weeks, like everything was just a countdown. He’s caught himself at it - distracted by Clint’s smile, caught by the way he moves, his eyes resting unregarded like Clint’s face is somehow a safe space. He thinks Steve and Natasha got there before he had quite made the logical leap himself. Clint, he’s not sure about - he’s going to assume that he’d picked something up, because they are  _here_ , and this is  _now_ , and Clint leaps without looking often but he’s too bright not to know that there’s  _somewhere_  to land. 

A tiny movement from Clint - wrong direction - like all the not-thinking Bucky’s doing is taking too long. He finds that the nape of Clint’s neck is the perfect resting place for his palm, warm skin vunerable against his hand, just like the look in Clint’s eyes for the moment before Bucky exerts the faintest pressure and they flutter closed. 

Another brush of lips against lips, almost exactly like the last except for the implacability of this, of Bucky’s movement forward, of the most decisive reciprocation he can manage pressed against Clint’s mouth. 


	146. Chapter 146

So far Bucky’s - the word probably isn’t  _stolen._  Not when you’re just grabbing the clothes that land on your fire escape ‘cos the guy above you just kinda drapes his shit and hopes for the best. So, put like that, so far Bucky’s  _claimed_  two hooded sweaters, a pair of purple sweatpants that are way too long for him, and a shirt from Carson’s Circus that’s delightfully stretched out across the shoulders. Steve was kind of appalled when Bucky told him about the first sweater, insisted that he should return it right away, but Steve… Steve still kinda hopes that Bucky can come out clothes shopping with him if he just  _tries_  hard enough, so Steve can chase his own tail. 

(Whether Bucky’s new thumb works with his phone is always a bit of a crapshoot, so online ordering isn’t working out so well either. Plus he’s not sure he wants that creepy supervillain lookin’ billionaire knowing where he lives.)

In Bucky’s defense, the time the bow topples over the balcony, he’s curled crankily around a cup of coffee in the bleary morning post-nightmare light, and it’s only honed instincts and practiced reflexes that enable him to grab it before it plummets to the ground below. He blinks unhelpfully at it to the soundtrack of swearing from above, and he struggles to his feet and is halfway to the door before he even really registers the knocking. 

He looks down at himself, pauses, and then gives the mental equivalent of a shrug. It’s not like the guy wouldn’t have noticed his shit going missing, and Bucky’s finally got an explanation for the sweater he’s currently wearing, that would tell any visitors - if he ever had any - that  _Archers do it with perfect aim_. 

“Hey,” the guy says, when Bucky squints at him suspiciously from his barely open door, “I know this is a long shot - pun intended - but did you happen to -” 

Bucky pulls open the door a little further and scowls at him, holding out the bow. The guy - just as tall and delightfully broad shouldered as his clothes would suggest - visibly double takes, his mouth dropping open when he sees the purple sweatpants Bucky’s got cuffed up around his ankles, the hoodie unzipped over his bare chest. 

“Oh, Jesus,” he says, the words kinda tumbling out without any obvious thought behind them. “I mean they’re my clothes so obviously they’d look better on my - but seriously, that’s - holy  _shit_ , you’re hot.” 


	147. Chapter 147

Clint is fucking infuriating, that’s probably his most consistent personality trait. He’s casual about things he shouldn’t be, and cocky with entirely earned confidence, and self-deprecating in ways that are woven deeply enough into the conversation that they’re impossible to unpick. Not that Bucky  _would_ , that’s not the point, it’s just - 

Fuck, it’s just that Bucky would be a hell of a lot less irritated by the jackass if he didn’t find him so goddamn  _hot_. 

Bucky’s always kinda had a thing for little guys, before. Not Steve-little, maybe, but smaller than he is. Narrower, slighter, looking up at him from under their eyelashes when he crowds them against a wall. He’s always kinda liked feeling a little oversized, protective, and no, that ain’t about Steve either, although he can see how someone could think so. 

Clint’s the exact opposite of everything he’s ever liked, is the thing. He’s taller than Bucky, and maybe a little broader, too, ‘cos archery is a beautiful thing. He’s louder than Bucky, not even closing in on shy, and he’s got no kinda poise about him at all. He is the very definition of a hot mess, and Bucky wants nothing more than for Clint to mess him up. 

He’s still reeling from the way Clint had looked when they’d rescued him from the giant squid thing that’d grabbed him and pulled him into a lake. He’d been dripping and laughing helplessly, a smear of mud across his cheek. They’d been called away from burgers - one of those meals out that Bucky hasn’t told Clint he wants to be dates, yet - and Clint was wearing a hastily shrugged on vest over a gray Henley, and the material clung to his biceps in ways that had made Bucky’s mouth dry. 

Hell, he’s getting a little breathless over it now; over how he’d wanted Clint to wrap him up in his arms. How he’d wanted to be crowded - up against a tree, maybe, sandwiched between the cool hard bark and cold hard Clint, muscular and immovable and Jesus, his mouth woulda been so  _hot_  - 

Bucky’s startled out of his trance, startled outta sliding his hand under the waistband of his sweatpants, when his phone buzzes - infuriatingly - against his thigh.

“Hey, asshole,” he says, without even bothering to look at who it is. Who else would it be? “I was just thinking about you.” 

 

 


	148. Chapter 148

“Hey, check it out,” Clint says, “I can tell the future.” 

Bucky snorts inelegantly, almost chokes himself on a noodle, and then pokes at Clint with his chopsticks. They’re on the couch at Clint’s place, Chinese takeout and Dog Cops on the TV, bruised and exhausted and mismatched socks incongruous with cargo pants that still smell a little like gunfire. Some kinda wrestling match has left them with their legs tangled close, crossed over each other on the coffee table until Bucky’s not even sure he knows where Clint ends and he begins. 

“Bullshit you can,” he says, ‘cos no one could’ve predicted this. 

“No, no, trust me,” Clint says, and tosses him a foil-wrapped fortune cookie, hitting him in the bridge of his nose. “I bet you $20 I can predict the fortune.” 

“Does it say ‘Tossing cookies will bring you punches’?” Bucky asks, but he rips open the foil anyway, tipping the cookie out into his hand. He crushes the cookie and tips the crumbs off the couch, to Lucky’s vocal delight. 

“It is better to be happy than be wise,” Clint says, in a spooky kinda voice, his fingertips pressed to his forehead. “Kind of a smudge over the second ‘i’.” 

“That’s amazing,” Bucky says, flatly, and Clint lights up with a grin. “You ever think maybe you eat too much Chinese?” 

“You ever think you should listen to the wisdom of cookies?” 

Bucky rolls his head against the back of the couch until he’s looking directly at Clint. He takes his time over it - takes in the mussed up hair, the sweet and sour stain on his shirt, the way his grin has kinda started defining happiness, in Bucky’s head. 

It’s a dumb decision, it’s a terrible fuckin’ plan, but wisdom never got him anywhere and he wants to know what happy feels like against his mouth. 


	149. Chapter 149

“Clint,” Bucky said, desperate, but the man had his head ducked down to see to Alpine’s tack and wouldn’t lift his head to listen to him. Bucky chanced the barest glance outside before reaching forward to rest his hand on Clint’s shoulder, his little finger barely venturing past the soft material of Clint’s shirt, that he might brush almost imperceptibly against stubbled skin. It hurt more than he could say when Clint brusquely shrugged him off, but at least there was a glimpse of cornflower blue so Bucky could sign to him  _sorry, I’m sorry._

Clint - Barton, he must accustom himself - tipped his head back and stared at the rough beams that held up the roof, to all outward appearances watching a spider spin. Below the level of the wooden half-walls that separated out the stalls, his rough fingers snagged at Bucky’s sleeve and tugged his hand down that they might surreptitiously weave their fingers together, undeserved forgiveness in the squeeze of calloused skin. 

“She’s the one, then?” Clint -  _Barton_ , God damn every inch of his lonely, longing skin, he  _must remember_  the terms it was appropriate for them to be on - cast a glance outside to where Steve stood with his wife and Miss Maximoff, who had an enchanting smile and five thousand a year. She was an excellent prospect, and Bucky would no doubt be very lucky if she accepted his suit, and he was so miserable he could die of the aching hollowness in his chest. 

Bucky twitched his fingers, but Clint kept tight and unrelenting hold of his hand. 

He was right. What was there to say?

 

 


	150. Chapter 150

Clint stumbled through the door and Bucky was up off the couch in seconds, checking out in the hallway - no movement - before slamming the door shut behind him, snapping the locks and chains in place in practiced sequence. When he turned around Clint had already dropped to his knees, greeting Lucky’s delighted licking with a wide grin and outstretched hands, and Bucky dropped to his knees next to Clint and started the careful examination while occasionally pushing Lucky’s face out of the way.

 

He’d pretty much given up on the idea of any kind of routine sticking after the third day.

 

Clint seemed fine: chilled and a little muddy, maybe, but with no rents in his clothing and no scrapes or new bruises on any of the skin Bucky could see. He started unhelpfully poking Bucky back after a moment or two, a lopsided mischievous grin on his face, and Bucky slapped his probing fingers away and bit down hard on his grin.

 

“What the hell took you so long?” Bucky asked, rather than saying anything uncomfortably honest about how worried he’d been.

 

“Priorities,” Clint said, and hauled the sack he’d dragged in with him to the kitchen, making impressed kinda noises when he saw the box Bucky’d placed inside another box, the space in between them packed tight with snow. “Old timey fridge, nice going!”

 

“Well I’m an old-timey guy,” he said, basking a little in the praise.

 

“Definitely my favourite,” Clint said, pouring potatoes into the plastic box with a rumbling thudding that occupied all of his attention and gave Bucky a second to recover his composure. There was no use talking to him until the noise was done, so Bucky set himself to unpacking the rest of the bag, pulling out the staples they’d need while the city was still cut off. Close to the bottom of the bag there was a jumble of items that took him a second to parse, shining and crumpled - a couple of glittering stars, a sheet of snowflake window clings.

 

Bucky held up a slightly misshapen sprig of plastic mistletoe, the berries inconsistently marbled between green and white.

 

“It’s Christmas,” Clint said, a little defensive.

 

“And you figured this was worth taking up space?”

 

Clint came over and straightened out the mistletoe leaves, then held it just over Bucky’s head.

 

“Priorities,” he said.


End file.
